


name one hero who was happy

by andrewminyards



Series: i am made of memories [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings Realization, Geralt Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Insecure Geralt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Reunions, Sad Geralt, Self-Esteem Issues, Temporary Character Death, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, geralt BLUSHES also he's smitten, there's also fluff but there's slow burn and angst first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24915613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: Geralt looks at the witcher, looks at himproperly, looks past the silver hair and golden eyes and scars and blood, and the face he sees -It’s impossible. It can’t be.Because Jaskier is dead.But somehow, this witcher in front of him has Jaskier’s face, and Geralt takes a shaky step towards the ghost in front of him, trembling so much that he drops his sword. “Ja - he’sdead. I saw his body. You can’t - youcan’t be him.”Or:After his outburst on the mountain, Geralt arrives too late to save Jaskier from a bloody death. A year later, he and Ciri are saved by a witcher who is painfully familiar, bearing the face of a dead bard. After he reunites with Jaskier, Geralt has to regain his trust, slowly showing Jaskier that he truly cares.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: i am made of memories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784458
Comments: 335
Kudos: 1067





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> you don’t need to have read the first fic in the series to read this - they have the same plot, just from different perspectives!
> 
> there is some major character death but jaskier isn’t actually dead, geralt only thinks he is - quick warning as geralt sees his body and mourns him (he’s very sad), but i need to stress that jaskier is alive, he’s fine!
> 
> also, english isn't my first language, so there will probably be mistakes and the story flow might not be great, and i don't have a beta - i apologise in advance!
> 
> enjoy!<3

“See you around, Geralt,” Jaskier chokes out brokenly.

Geralt doesn’t turn around, doesn’t respond, listening as Jaskier’s footsteps recede, growing fainter and fainter. He tries to tell himself that it’s for the best, that this is the best outcome for both of them, even as the sinking feeling in his chest grows the further Jaskier becomes.

He yearns to chase after Jaskier, to clasp his hands and kneel on the ground and beg for forgiveness, for Jaskier to take him back, but his feet are rooted to the ground, and Geralt is unable to move, helpless to go after Jaskier even as Geralt feels him retreat further and further away. 

Geralt hadn’t meant a word of what he said. He’d lashed out in a moment of anger, filled with grief at the loss of Yennefer, and he took it out on the one person in his life he could always rely on, who he thought would never leave him.

Regret settles in his gut as he realises that maybe this time is the last straw. Geralt has said many, many things to Jaskier over the years, but Jaskier had never left, not when Geralt had insulted his voice, not when Geralt had dismissed their friendship, not when Geralt had sneered at his antics. Geralt had always been callous and cruel and brash, but Jaskier had always remained a constant by his side. This time…

This time, there is a resignation in Jaskier’s voice, a pain that Geralt has never heard before in over two decades of their travels, and Geralt thinks that this. This is it. 

This is when Jaskier can’t take his shit anymore, deciding that he’s better off leaving Geralt behind. That Geralt is far too horrible of a person for Jaskier to stay around, that Jaskier has finally realised that travelling with a witcher can bring nothing but pain.

His heart tightens at the realisation that perhaps Jaskier is truly leaving Geralt behind this time. Before, Jaskier had always come back, anticipation in his voice and a smile on his face, and Geralt had taken that for granted.

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, recalling Jaskier’s stricken expression as Geralt spits at him, _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_ , and he knows that there’s no going back.

Geralt stands rooted in place for around an hour, his mind bringing up memories of Jaskier’s easy companionship and the constant joy Geralt had felt with him, but always circling back to Jaskier’s pained eyes as Geralt yells at him. He stares into the horizon, wind battering at his face as thoughts of Jaskier swirl in his mind, fully aware that he looks like an idiot. But, well, no one’s here to tease him about it, anyway. He’d chased them all away.

By the time he’s feeling a bit more collected, he knows what he has to do. There’s an aching loneliness in his heart, an absence, a void was used to be filled by Jaskier, and Geralt _knows_ that Jaskier has become such a constant in life over the past years that nothing feels quite right without him, leaving Geralt floating aimlessly without an anchor.

He’s stayed here too long. He must follow Jaskier, and he has to apologise - he’s willing to let go of his pride, willing to _beg_ Jaskier to take him back. Geralt had once said that he didn’t need anyone - he knows now that he was wrong, utterly wrong, because Geralt _needs_ Jaskier like he needs air. 

Somehow, over the past two decades, Jaskier had wormed his way into Geralt’s heart, had become a constant presence humming at the back of Geralt’s mind. Jaskier had shown him so much, had enlightened him to new things he never knew over his long, immortal life, and Geralt had learnt so much from him, learnt companionship and contentment and happiness and fondness, and Jaskier is - he needs Jaskier. He can’t do anything without Jaskier. He can’t live without Jaskier.

Geralt fears that perhaps Jaskier won’t take him back. He would deserve it. Years of basking in the warmth of Jaskier’s presence, and yet he had never truly expressed his appreciation to Jaskier. He thinks of the way he had treated Jaskier all these years, and his heart aches at how neglected and unwanted Jaskier must feel.

Perhaps this was the tipping point. Perhaps Jaskier had heard ‘ _If life could give me one blessing -_ ’, and that had been the tipping point, a culmination of years and years of Geralt pushing him away, dismissing him as nothing more than a mere nuisance. Perhaps Jaskier has decided that Geralt is not worth his short mortal life, and will live out his remaining years doing something truly worth his time.

But Geralt needs to try. He intends to make up for the neglect he’s shown Jaskier over the past twenty or so years, for how cruel and insensitive he’s been towards someone who has only been open and generous and caring. 

Perhaps he is a horrible person for never realising this until now, when it seems that Jaskier has truly left him. But he is unwilling to let Jaskier go, and Geralt will do anything to keep him. 

Just yesterday, Jaskier had sat next to him. _“That is, if you’ll let me prove myself a worthy travelling companion,”_ Jaskier had implored, looking at him with hope in his eyes. It had never been Jaskier who needed to prove himself a worthy travelling companion - that had always been Geralt, and Geralt hates himself a little for how he’s let Jaskier think that. 

He’ll ask Jaskier to go to the coast with him, and follow Jaskier instead of the other way round. He needs to show Jaskier that he’s always appreciated him. He needs to show Jaskier that he cares, that he’s always cared, that he always will care.

So Geralt heads down the mountain, pace hurried, determined to catch up to Jaskier.

Jaskier must be some way down the mountain by now, but he’s only human, and Geralt has no doubt that he will reach Jaskier by the end of the day.

Jaskier isn’t hard to track - they’ve travelled together for so long that Geralt would recognise his scent anywhere. A few hours later, and Geralt still hasn’t caught up to him - Jaskier had at least an hour’s head start, but the sun is setting, which means that Jaskier will have no choice but to set up camp soon, so Geralt reassures himself that he should be able to find Jaskier by the end of the day.

There’s a howl some distance away, followed shortly by a series of howls, sending shivers down Geralt’s spine. Wolves. They’re common, in this part of the Continent, and they’re dangerous, especially if they travel in packs. Geralt hopes that Jaskier has found a safe place to camp - when they were on the hunt, he’d warned Jaskier of the dangers that lurked in the mountains, a warning which Geralt prays that Jaskier has heeded.

He tries to tell himself that it’s nothing when Jaskier’s trail heads towards the direction of the wolves’ howl. Geralt _knows_ that Jaskier is sensible enough to stay out of danger, despite his bumbling facade, and he tells himself that Jaskier is fine, that he’s found a place to camp far away from the dangers of these woods.

Dread pools in his stomach, and his heart hammers as he continues following Jaskier’s scent, closer and closer to where he’d heard the howls. 

Jaskier is fine. He has to be.

A few minutes later, he smells blood.

 _Jaskier’s_ blood.

Geralt breaks into a frantic sprint as his mind fills with panic. Fuck, Jaskier had gotten hurt. He thinks of the howls he heard, and he knows that the pack of wolves must have attacked Jaskier.

Jaskier wouldn’t have stood a chance.

He bursts into a clearing to see a pack of wolves huddling around… something, and Geralt sees red. He roars in anger, in pain, and draws his sword, slicing through the wolves. They lunge at him, trying to attack him, but rage fuels his movements and a pack of wolves lie dead at his feet in less than a minute.

There’s something on the ground where the wolves had gathered around, something bloody. Geralt doesn’t want to look at it, doesn’t want to have his fears confirmed, but he has to. He knows he has to.

Geralt tightens his jaw, steeling himself. 

He looks.

And -

Geralt can’t comprehend what he sees. Surely - surely, the body in front of him can’t be Jaskier. Surely, Jaskier will dance out from behind the trees with an impish grin, lute in his hands, and he’ll tease Geralt for being so easily fooled, of _course_ he’s alive, the Continent’s best bard can’t be killed that easily, do you think so little of me, Geralt?

But the forest is silent, and no one emerges from the trees. 

Jaskier’s body is almost unrecognisable. The wolves had mangled him, torn him apart, and Geralt can’t bear to look at his remains. Jaskier’s red doublet is almost invisible, blending with the blood - gods, there is _so much blood_ \- and his white shirt is soaked in crimson, ripped to shreds.

Geralt doesn’t realise that he’s trembling until his legs give out and his knees hit the ground, but he barely registers the pain as he reaches out to Jaskier’s destroyed, bloody face with quivering hands. Jaskier’s eyes are open, the usually bright cornflower blue now dull and lifeless, staring at nothing.

It isn’t right. Jaskier’s eyes should be filled with joy and laughter and light, so in love with the world around him. They should be expressive and dynamic, dancing with mirth and mischief, not -

They shouldn’t be - this. Blank and devoid of life, two blue pits of nothingness, stark against the vicious red of his blood-coated skin.

It’s horrible. It’s like a scene out of his worst nightmares, of Jaskier broken and bleeding, and perhaps it _is_ a nightmare, Geralt thinks desperately. Perhaps this is nothing more than a figment of his imagination, and Jaskier is somewhere out there, singing and dancing and laughing, lute in his hands, joy in his eyes, filling every space he inhabits with light and beauty.

But the heavy, oppressive scent of blood clogs his nose, the coppery smell threatening to choke him, and his hearing is far too acute for it to be a nightmare. 

This is reality.

Reality is Jaskier’s wrecked body, ripped apart and contorted at horrific angles. Reality is the blood, the dreadful tang of copper and the horrific spread of crimson pervading Geralt’s every sense. Reality is Jaskier’s blank, void eyes, dull and unseeing.

Reality is Jaskier, his companion, his bard, his best friend, the most important person in his life - _dead_.

Geralt is numb, numb from pain and agony and shock, as he tears his eyes away from Jaskier - from Jaskier’s body, and looks around the clearing. Not too far away from him is Jaskier’s lute, as broken as the body of its master, and Geralt picks it up with shaking hands.

Filavandrel’s lute had meant so much to Jaskier - it never strayed far from his hands over the past two decades, and Jaskier had never treasured anything more. To see Jaskier’s prized possession broken in pieces - it tears at Geralt’s heart, as if it’s providing confirmation that Jaskier is truly _gone_.

Something trickles down his face and Geralt wonders if it’s raining. But no - the stars are clear in the sky, and Geralt brings a heavy hand to his cheek. It comes away wet.

He’s crying.

Geralt hasn’t cried since the Trials. He’d thought himself incapable of crying - had thought that the mutations had taken that ability away. He hadn’t cried the first time he’d been chased out of a village with pitchforks and axes, left in the woods to shiver and starve. He hadn’t cried when Kaer Morhen was sacked and his fellow witchers were killed. He hadn’t cried when Renfri died. 

Now, he thinks numbly, he’s crying.

* * *

The rest of the trip down the mountain passes in a blur. He’s dimly aware of finding Roach and stumbling back to the town where the hunt had started, and asking for a room. The innkeeper gives him a strange look, casting a glance towards the broken lute in his hands, but hands over a room key without a comment. 

Geralt walks up the stairs of the inn, steps heavy as he lurches towards the room. His vision goes increasingly unfocused and he fumbles with the lock, the key almost falling out of his shaky hands.

Once he finally manages to open the door, Geralt doesn’t bother properly settling down, instead heading straight to the bed and sitting down heavily. He can’t bear to part with Jaskier’s lute, broken as it is, and he settles it on his lap, hands lingering over the strings.

Geralt stares at the lute, heart aching. His mind replays the image of Jaskier’s bloody, broken body over and over, and he presses his fists to his eyes, a futile attempt to repress the tears spilling out.

He wonders what Jaskier had been thinking on his way down the mountain, and Geralt _hates_ himself for how callously he’d treated Jaskier all these years. He hates himself for the years he spent pushing Jaskier away, hates himself for the snide comments and insults, hates himself for letting his last words to Jaskier be something so utterly horrible and unforgivable.

Gods, his last words had been for life to take Jaskier off his hands, and life had done exactly that. He doesn’t think he’s ever regretted anything more than those horrible words he had spat at Jaskier in a moment of uncontrolled anger.

If he hadn’t lashed out, Jaskier would still be by his side, happily chattering away or composing his latest song about the hunt, wheedling Geralt for details. If he hadn’t chased Jaskier away, they would have travelled down the mountain together, and Geralt would have fended off any creatures that wanted to attack them.

If Geralt hadn’t been so needlessly cruel, Jaskier would still be _alive._

Jaskier’s death is all his fault.

Geralt wants to scream and cry and curse at the sky to bring Jaskier back. Jaskier deserves - deserved to live. He had the brightest soul Geralt has ever seen over his long life, so full of vitality and boundless energy, bringing happiness to so many people - even Geralt. He’d brightened up Geralt’s dull, monotonous life on the Path, and he had improved Geralt’s reputation so much that he was sometimes welcomed at towns.

Jaskier had truly been one of a kind, the best person Geralt has ever met - and now he’s gone, all that brightness and vitality snuffed out. A gaping ache has opened up within him, an ache that echoes the absence by his side, an ache that Jaskier had filled, and Geralt curses himself, curses how he had never realised how much Jaskier had meant to him until he was _dead_.

Jaskier had been by his side for twenty-two years, over half of his lifetime spent with Geralt, and Geralt had never truly appreciated any of it, never even called him a _friend_. What kind of awful monster is he, Geralt wonders, that he had never given Jaskier anything in return, when all Jaskier had done was give and give and _give_?

And now he will never have the chance, and will have to live with that regret for however long he lives.

Geralt doesn’t sleep that night. He runs out of tears sometime around midnight, but he never stops trembling as he thinks of every single interaction he’s had with Jaskier, every single wrong he’d committed against the person who only ever wanted to be a good friend, letting himself be consumed by self-loathing and regret.

When the sun peeks through the window, he’s still in the same position, body curling over the destroyed lute in his lap, fingers clutching at its shattered remains, and for a moment, Geralt despises the sliver of light that the sun brings. A few hours without Jaskier, and his life is already bleak and dull and empty, and yet the sun shines merrily on. 

Jaskier isn’t here to bring light and warmth into his dark, lonely life. Not anymore.

Geralt returns to the Path alone for the first time in over two decades. It’s horrible. The silence is oppressive, the absence of Jaskier’s cheerful voice weighing on Geralt. There’s no endless babbling, no strains of music, no musical laughs, nothing but the lonely silence of the Path.

_I’m sorry._

Geralt wonders how he had survived the Path before Jaskier had forced his way into Geralt’s life in a dark tavern in Posada. His life has been plunged back into the way it was before he’d met Jaskier, and everything is so - so _bleak._

_I’m sorry. Please, please forgive me._

Everything reminds him of Jaskier. Everywhere he looks, everything he hears or feels or smells - _everything_ reminds him of Jaskier, and Geralt feels hollow with grief at the constant reminders that Jaskier is gone.

There’s a beautiful meadow, a rainbow of flowers sprawling across the land. The sun sets, staining the sky with purples and pinks. The lake is dotted with specks of silver, reflecting the glow of the moon and the twinkling stars that fill the sky. 

They all remind him of Jaskier, their beauty filling the dark corners of the world, and Geralt thinks of how Jaskier would write odes to the breathtaking beauty of the world around him. 

Geralt passes a waterfall, crashing into a sparkling lake and creating a spray of droplets. His fingers twitch. 

In the next town, he buys a small, empty notebook. The next time he encounters something that Jaskier would proclaim to be songworthy, he writes it down, documenting what he sees and hears and smells. He writes about his adventures and his hunts, and his words are halting, at first - he doesn’t possess the talent Jaskier had for words, but gradually, his words flow with increasing ease. 

There is no one to show it to. Geralt can no longer find Jaskier and tell him of all the wonderful things that remind Geralt of him, and as he tucks the notebook back into his pocket, he hates that Jaskier will never get to see what Geralt has written for him. 

But Geralt continues writing.

If there is one thing he can do to honour Jaskier’s memory, it is this. 

_Come back._

As he travels on the road, he thinks of how Jaskier would detail his adventures without Geralt, flowery prose colouring his words. He thinks of how Jaskier would skip alongside Roach, lute in his hands as he tries out new words for his songs, asking Geralt for approval. Geralt would grumble at Jaskier, pretending to be irritated, but he’d always be secretly pleased at how at ease Jaskier is around him, trusting him enough to let go.

Now, every sound is toneless, a pale imitation of the Jaskier’s melodious voice, and sometimes Geralt wants to clap his hands over his ears and scream at the world to shut up, _shut up_ , because nothing can ever compare to Jaskier’s voice, but he’s living in a world devoid of Jaskier’s voice, and it _hurts_.

_Your voice brightened my life. I’m sorry that I’ve been so cruel about it._

He keeps the lute. It’s twisted and smashed and broken, but Geralt brings it with him on his travels, the last reminder he has of Jaskier. He carefully cleans the dried blood from its destroyed body, polishing it as much as he can the way he remembers Jaskier doing. 

Geralt keeps it in his bags, checking every so often to make sure that it doesn’t get jostled too much. He takes it out every night, running his fingers lightly over the wood and the strings, and he thinks of how much Jaskier loved his lute, and how horrified he would be to see it in the state it is now. 

Perhaps the lute is fixable. Once a year or so, Jaskier would demand that they take a detour to Oxenfurt, paying a visit to his favourite luthier to maintain the quality of his lute. Geralt would always roll his eyes but give in, trying not to gawk at the exorbitant price that Jaskier would pay for the upkeep of his lute. 

Geralt still remembers where to find the luthier, and hope blooms in his heart at the thought that perhaps he could keep this one piece of Jaskier. He travels towards Oxenfurt, saving up coin for however much it would take to repair the lute, but when the luthier examines the lute with a troubled frown and a shake of his head, Geralt’s heart sinks. 

“I’m sorry,” the luthier says softly as she turns the lute carefully in her hands. “It’s far too broken for me to fix it.”

Geralt swallows. “Are you - are you sure?” he asks helplessly, wringing his hands. “I will pay whatever it takes - I can try and find what you need, I -”

The luthier cuts him off with a sharp shake of her head. “It’s far beyond the realm of being fixable,” she tells him sadly. “I could try my best - and I would, for Jaskier - but I truly can’t fix it, as much as I would like to. I’m sorry.”

He departs from the luthier’s house with a heavy heart. She’d offered to take the lute, to pay him for its parts, but Geralt had declined vehemently. He refuses to let go of Jaskier’s lute, the only physical reminder of Jaskier that he has, even if it is broken beyond repair. 

And so the lute stays with him, a painful reminder of the absence of Jaskier in his life, of what he had lost. 

Broken, unfixable. 

_I’m sorry I never got to repair our relationship. I was the one to destroy it, so many times over, and I wish you were here for me to make up for that._

The first time he walks into a tavern where a bard is singing, Geralt instinctively twists to face Jaskier, ready to deliver a scathing comment regarding the bard’s subpar abilities - but no one is behind him, only a gaping absence in the space which Jaskier always occupied; a space Jaskier _should_ be occupying, had Geralt not been a colossal idiot. 

It crushes him, and he turns and walks out of the tavern, movements heavy. The bard’s music drifts in the air behind him, lingering in Geralt’s ears as if mocking his loss. 

He can’t deal with this. He has to get away. Every step seems to drag him down as he heads to the stables, one foot in front of the other. There’s no bright presence behind him, following him wherever he goes. Geralt only hears his own footsteps, deafeningly loud without the familiar rhythm of Jaskier’s quick, light steps. 

Geralt heads straight for Roach. Night is falling, and he won’t find another town until tomorrow. He’ll have to camp, but -

He needs to get out of this town. 

_I’m sorry I never told you how much I appreciated your presence beside me, grounding me._

Geralt sits alone around a fire, tearing off the last bits of rabbit meat he’d cooked. The meat is bland, tasteless as it goes down his throat, nothing more than a means of sustenance. 

It’s nighttime. Animals dart through the bushes, rustling branches and crushing leaves under their feet. An owl hoots somewhere in the distance, a solitary sound soaring over the perpetual hum of the forest. Crickets chirp loudly enough to be heard over the bubbling of a brook nearby.

Even at nighttime, the sounds of the forest bustle with life, but Geralt finds it deafeningly silent. There’s no cheerful chatter as Jaskier tears into his food, a running commentary of his thoughts on Geralt’s cooking skills peppered with splatters of observations he’d made over the day. 

Geralt sits alone, the sounds of the forest surrounding him, but everything is too silent. There’s no lilting music drifting through the trees. Jaskier doesn’t pester him for details of his hunts, for information about his past. Jaskier doesn’t ramble on about his own experiences, or compose rhymes to his latest song.

Without Jaskier, the world is silent.

_I’m sorry that I ever wanted peace from you. Your lack of it is precisely what makes my life so much better._

Everything seems grey and dull to him, now. The colour has been leached out of the world, bustling cities becoming subdued, wildflowers fading into the background. Even the sky seems to mock him, its colour a bit too muted to match the cornflower blue of Jaskier’s eyes. 

Jaskier had brought colour into his life. The rainbow of his doublets, the shine of his blue eyes, the sheer brightness and vibrance of his presence - now, the world is grey and dreary, like a veil has been cast over it, and Geralt hates it.

_You are - were the best thing in my life. I’m sorry I never realised that before._

Geralt hates the sounds of the Path. The steady thump of Roach’s hooves as she trots ahead, the rush of wind, the twittering of birds. 

It’s so - empty. Geralt hates it. 

He misses the music. 

When Geralt finds himself humming, unbidden, the opening lines to Toss a Coin in the unbearable silence, voice low and rough, he pulls Roach to a stop, stumbling to sit on the ground heavily. Hot tears prick at the edges of his eyes as memories of Jaskier’s songs bombard him, mocking the silence that now surrounds him. 

He misses the music _so fucking much_. 

His voice isn’t Jaskier’s, but occasionally, Geralt lets himself hum, filling the Path with a bit of music. 

It hurts every time. But gods, he misses the music. 

_Come back. I love your singing and your music, and I would give everything to hear it again._

Geralt goes through the motions. They’re familiar to him, ingrained over decades of monotonous repetition. Town, contract, monster, money, inn if he’s lucky, back on the road, and the cycle begins again, a circle of endless repetition. 

All around him, people go on with their lives. In taverns, friends greet each other, ale sloshing in their tankards as they laugh and talk about their day. Children leap into their parents’ arms, who wrap their children in a loving, protective embrace. Merchants sell their wares, and travellers trundle past him on the road.

Everyone gets on with their lives. Geralt feels that his has come to a standstill.

It’s worse than before Jaskier had bounded into his life. Before, Geralt hadn’t known the joy and pleasure that came with having Jaskier at his side, hadn’t known that it was possible to enjoy the Path, hadn’t known Jaskier’s brightness and laughter.

Now, he knows what it feels to have someone so full of life by his side, and the loss of Jaskier feels all the more devastating. He yearns for something, anything to drag him out of the tedium of the Path, but Jaskier is gone, and his life has plummeted back to how it was before, nothing more than the endlessly dull life of a witcher.

_I’m sorry. You were far more than just my travelling companion. You were my friend._

A delighted laugh rings through the air, soaring over the babble and bustle of the busy town. The sound is so full of impossible joy that Geralt cranes his head to seek out its source, eyes landing on a woman next to a nearby fountain. A joyous grin lights up her face as she hauls up another woman from where she’d been kneeling on one knee, pulling her into a sweet kiss. 

When they break apart, they seem to glow with joy, and Geralt can’t take his eyes off them even as pain grips his heart. They are radiant with happiness, eyes fixed on each other, every movement tender as the first woman gently caresses her lover’s cheek, who leans into the touch. 

This must be love.

Watching them, watching the love shine from them for all to see, a searing pain rips through Geralt’s chest, tearing at the gaping hole that Jaskier’s death had left in him. He thinks of tentative touches lingering on his arms, of gentle fingers kneading through his hair, lathering soap down his body. He thinks of deft hands patching up his wounds, a lilting voice soothing him gently through the haze of pain. He thinks of waking up from a nightmare, long arms wrapping around his shuddering body, the warmth lulling him to sleep.

The women clasp hands, their bodies leaning towards each other the way sunflowers lean towards the sun, and Geralt misses Jaskier’s gentle touches fiercely, misses how Jaskier had been the only one to touch him without reservation, without fear at being so close to a deadly witcher, and his yearning for Jaskier deepens.

As the first woman pulls her lover into yet another kiss, the absence by Geralt’s side feels all the more acute, a glaring reminder of everything he had lost, and he aches for Jaskier as he watches the women twine around each other, aches for his touch, his tenderness, his love -

Oh.

Geralt finally tears his eyes away from the couple, unable to bear the sheer love that radiates from them. As he walks back to the inn with long strides, the sight of the women cling to his mind - the care and affection in their eyes when looking at each other, their glowing smiles, their tender touches.

Jaskier had looked at him like that, bright blue eyes filled with something soft. Jaskier had smiled at him like that, like Geralt was something to be cherished, like nothing made him happier than Geralt’s presence. Jaskier had touched him like that, hands gentle on Geralt’s skin, a stark contrast to the violence and brutality that he’s used to.

And Geralt had taken all of that for granted, never realising that he yearned for Jaskier’s smiles and touches, and now -

Geralt wonders if anyone will ever love him the way Jaskier had.

He wonders if he will ever love anyone the way he’d loved - still loves - Jaskier.

_I’m sorry, Jaskier, I love you, please -_

Geralt is passing by Kerack when he hears of a well-paying contract due west. He’s short on coin, so he figures he might as well check the contract out, and heads west. 

A few hours later, the scent of brine fills his nose, the salty sea breeze brushing past his face, and he brings Roach to an abrupt halt as his heart pounds loudly in his ears. 

_We could head to the coast._ A murmur, soft and hopeful. _Get away for a while_. 

Jaskier, for once, had asked Geralt to follow him, and Geralt had turned away dismissively, tossing him aside for a night in Yennefer’s tent. Geralt sees Jaskier’s requests for what it is now - an expression of devotion, a tentative question of whether Geralt would accept his love, and Geralt had taken Jaskier’s hope and crushed it in his hands.

Jaskier had died thinking Geralt had rejected him.

 _Life is short._ Geralt can hear the longing in Jaskier’s voice now, a longing that he hadn’t heard when Jaskier had said it, ignoring it in favour of pursuing Yennefer, and he can taste the bitter tang of regret on his tongue. 

_Do what pleases you, while you can._ A pained, choked laugh tears itself from Geralt’s throat. Those words mean so much more now, knowing that Jaskier had willingly spent over half of his short, mortal life with Geralt. For some inane reason, travelling with _Geralt_ had pleased Jaskier, and what had Geralt done?

He’d never fully valued how much Jaskier meant to him, how much light and joy Jaskier brought into his life, and instead, he had been a complete and utter idiot and pushed Jaskier away, never seeing how much Jaskier enjoyed his company.

He thinks that Jaskier might have been in love with him. He thinks that he might have been in love with Jaskier too, and might still be.

Two decades, and Geralt had single-handedly ruined it all.

He turns back, pulling on Roach’s reins, and urges her into a gallop back the way they came, away from the scent of the sea. 

_I’ll go to the coast with you, please come back. We can go together, and I’ll never let you go ever again._

A year passes in a pained, hazy blur, and grief and regret chips at Geralt with every passing day. When he sees Nilfgaard’s army, it’s a welcome distraction from the anguish that has taken over his life, and he heads to Cintra only to get captured.

Later, he finds his child surprise in a forest, and she clings to him like she doesn’t ever want to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh the geralt pov i promised is finally here, i hope you enjoyed it! there's a lot of angst, isn't there:) poor boy needs a hug. the ciri angst will come next chapter, and so will the reunion, so there's that to look forward to, but the next update will be back in jaskier's pov.
> 
> wow i keep writing geralt angsting over jaskier's death,,, i need to depart from the mcd a bit oops?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt and ciri bonding but also geralt and ciri angst, buckle up everyone! (it hurt me writing it and editing it, so yeah skjdfn)

Ciri is twelve, and she has experienced far too much loss, seen far too much bloodshed and suffering for someone so young. There’s a deep urge inside of Geralt, an urge that tells him to care for her, to protect her from the horrors of the world at all costs. She’s young, so young, and something in him aches to see her struggle through her pain and her trauma, so utterly undeserved.

Geralt is not good with children. That had always been Jaskier. But Ciri has been through so much, and she’s his child surprise, so Geralt tries his best, letting her ride Roach, stopping for more breaks. Recalling Jaskier’s gentle touches, Geralt tries to be more affectionate with Ciri, even if he feels clunky and awkward. He lets himself hug her when she looks upset, lets himself tentatively stroke his hands through her hair when she needs reassurance. 

_Speak more and relax_ , Geralt remembers Jaskier chiding him once when a gaggle of children had crowded around them, clamouring in high voices. _You’ll unsettle the children with your grumpy face and your angry grunts._

The children had loved Jaskier - children _always_ love Jaskier - so Geralt lets his guard down around Ciri in a way he would never do around strangers, softening his face from its perpetual frown. He makes himself communicate more, asking her questions, and when she grows quiet, he fills the silence with halting tales of his own adventures and journeys, to which she listens with rapt attention.

He’s reminded of how Jaskier used to fill the silence on their travels.

He wonders if Jaskier would be proud of him now.

Ciri is wary at first, cautious of opening up, but she warms to him as his efforts to care for her become clear. She leans into his touches, finding solace in his embrace and curling up to him for warmth at night. Gradually, she smiles more and more, until one day, she giggles sweetly at one of Geralt’s tales, and Geralt’s heart soars to see her small face open and bright.

It’s good to see that her pain hasn’t dragged her down so far that she’s lost every spark of youth and brightness within her. Geralt recalls his own childhood, the brutal training from such a young age, the agony of the Trials, the rejection he’d faced when setting out on the Path - and he’s so, so glad that Ciri, despite all the loss she’s experienced, is still capable of facing the world with a smile.

The first time Ciri has a nightmare, Geralt doesn’t know what to do. He’s never handled children, so he flails around for a moment, unsure of what to say. 

A memory springs up in his mind of when he and Jaskier had passed through a town, and Geralt had come back from a contract to see Jaskier hugging a child as she mourned for her mother. Jaskier had been so careful, so gentle, as he stroked her hair and murmured reassurances, cocooning her in the warm circle of his arms. 

It’s this memory that Geralt holds on to, painful as it is, as he wraps Ciri in an awkward embrace, the way he remembers Jaskier doing. It’s awkward, but Ciri collapses into his arms, sobbing quietly, and they remain in this position until her tears subside.

It happens again, and again. Every time, Geralt wraps her in his arms, and he grows a little more comfortable with it each time, relaxing into the touch the way he’d never let himself with Jaskier.

The fourth or fifth time, Geralt musters up his courage and rasps, “I’m so sorry, Ciri. You have experienced far too much loss, and I wish you wouldn’t have to bear that burden.”

“I miss my home.” Ciri sniffs wetly, wiping at her eyes. “I miss Grandmother, I miss Eist, I miss Mousesack, I miss my friends and the castle staff and I miss _everyone_ , Geralt. It hurts. How do I get it to stop hurting?”

Geralt has no answer for that, so he holds her closer, letting his actions comfort her. He’s not good with words, and Ciri has realised this over the time they’ve been together, so she takes his actions for what they are, her body slumping into him.

Geralt is about to doze off when Ciri speaks.

“There is one person who I might not have lost,” Ciri says quietly. Geralt sits up and looks at her intently. “But I… I used to see him all the time, but I haven’t seen him in over a year. He was like family to me, and I - I miss him _so much_.”

Geralt hums. “Do you know where he is?”

“I know he travels,” Ciri huffs sadly. “But I have no idea if he’s alright. I wish…”

“We can find him,” Geralt offers. He’d rather that they get to Kaer Morhen as soon as possible, but this person clearly means a lot to Ciri, and Geralt wants nothing more than to cheer her up, make her smile. If they can find this person, at least Ciri will have one person in her life that she hasn’t lost, so Geralt mentally maps out the detours they may have to take before they get to Kaer Morhen.

It will take some time off their journey, but if that’s what it takes to bring joy to his child surprise, Geralt is willing to sacrifice a few days.

“He’s a travelling bard,” Ciri tells him, and something in Geralt freezes.

He tells himself that there are travelling bards who are not Jaskier. There are many of them, in fact - there’s no reason that Ciri’s bard has to be Jaskier.

Except there is, because Ciri is Geralt’s child surprise, and Jaskier had always disapproved of how Geralt had abandoned her. Geralt knows that Jaskier used to disappear several times a year, and now that he thinks back to it, Jaskier had always left when they’d been near Cintra.

It _can’t_ be Jaskier. But it’s undoubtedly something that Jaskier would do and the evidence adds up, and dread pools in Geralt’s stomach.

But - but _surely_ it can’t be Jaskier.

Oblivious to Geralt’s turmoil, Ciri continues. “His name is Jaskier.” 

_Fuck._

For the millionth time in his life, Geralt curses Destiny and whatever higher power there is that pulls their strings. Ciri has suffered so much already. Why is the world so cruel, taking _everything_ from her?

She turns hopeful eyes to him, and Geralt’s heart squeezes. “He’s quite well-known. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”

How does he break to Ciri that Jaskier is dead? How does he tell her that, when she’s lost her home and her family and everything she has ever known, when she’s clinging to the hope that there’s one person she hasn’t yet lost?

Geralt wasn’t built to be delicate. He’s not a master of words or good with people, like Jaskier was. He can do nothing to soften the blow for Ciri.

He closes his eyes, tears brimming. “I’m so, so sorry, Ciri,” he whispers, voice raspy as he fights back tears. All those years on the Path and he’d never cried, until Jaskier’s death, until now. “I’m so sorry. Jaskier - he’s dead, Ciri, I’m _so sorry_.”

His words hang in the air for a moment, suspended, as Ciri stares uncomprehendingly, and then she shoves him away as she leaps to her feet, eyes blazing. 

“You’re lying!” Ciri yells, tone accusative. Her eyes are wild and bright, and her body is shaking like a leaf as she pushes against his chest. “You’re lying, he’s not dead, he _can’t_ be dead!”

Geralt clenches his fist, unable to stop the tears from spilling. “I’m sorry,” his voice breaks. His heart breaks. “I want - I want _so badly_ to tell you that I’m lying, but I - I’m not. Jaskier is - he’s - I’m sorry, Ciri.”

Ciri stares in shock as tears fall down Geralt’s face. “ _No_!” she screams, endless anguish in her voice, collapsing to her knees.

“No,” she repeats, soft and pained, and buries her head in her hands. “He - he can’t be dead, Geralt, he _can’t_!”

Her body heaves with fresh sobs, and she lets out a heartbreaking wail, filled with loss and grief and anguish as deep as the pain in Geralt’s own heart, and the forest around them shakes with the force of her chaos, a violent wind whipping through the trees. There is an impossibly painful devastation in her cries, and Geralt knows that Ciri feels the same yawning void that is the absence of Jaskier.

He crawls over, and pulls her into his arms. She resists at first, pounding at his chest as she cries and cries and cries, and he shushes her even as his own tears continue to fall. 

Eventually, she lets him pull her close and she whimpers into his chest, the sound vulnerable and sorrowful and Geralt _hates_ the world, hates whatever deity is out there pulling their strings, because how _dare_ they take Jaskier from this world, how dare they take such a wonderful and bright soul who’d touched the lives of so many, how dare they take him from Ciri, who has already lost so much.

They cry together, holding onto each other as they mourn the loss of the bard who’d meant so much to them, who still means so much to them. They mourn the loss of Jaskier, who’d almost been a parent figure for Ciri, a steady support as she grew up in Cintra; Jaskier, who’d been Geralt’s best friend, his love, his companion, who had brought things that were new and bright and beautiful into Geralt’s life.

Ciri clutches at Geralt, fingers digging into his skin as she hiccups softly. “He can’t be dead,” she repeats, voice broken as she curls into herself. “He - he - _please_ , I -”

“I know, Ciri, I know,” Geralt whispers, and a fresh round of tears spills down his face, his heart fracturing further. “Trust me, I know.”

“He - he might be alive somewhere,” Ciri says, bloodshot eyes frenzied and desperate, and Geralt represses a wince as her fingers tighten around his arm. “You’re a witcher, we can help him -”

Geralt shakes his head, the movement heavy and leaden. “I’m sorry, Ciri,” he chokes out. Blood, splashes of crimson, the stench of copper. Jaskier’s face, pale and blank. His body, mauled and broken. “I saw, I saw his body. I couldn’t -”

He stops, unable to go on. _I couldn’t save him_. 

“No,” Ciri whispers, but the fight has drained out of her, and she looks pale and broken, a young girl who’s lost everything. There’s something shattered in her green eyes as Geralt’s words rip away the remnants of her hope, and she buries her face in her hands. “ _No._ ”

Geralt curls his arms around her, his movements careful as he pulls her small body against him. Ciri looks so fragile now, her grief and tears making her seem even more vulnerable, and Geralt aches at the knowledge that he isn’t able to give her just this one thing. 

They stay like this for a long time in their shared grief, the silence broken occasionally by Ciri’s watery sniffles. Geralt wipes away his tears - even now, a year later, the memories of Jaskier are as painful as ever, dredging up waves and waves of intense emotions that he used to be able to ignore. Meeting Jaskier had opened up a dam within him, unleashing a torrent of emotions he had worked decades to bury, and with Jaskier’s death, the emotions had only gotten stronger.

Now, as Geralt swipes at his cheeks, he wonders whether Jaskier had done him a favour in helping him bring his emotions to the surface. He’d once been told that emotions were a liability, and perhaps it’s true. The only times Geralt had cried after the Trials had been after Jaskier’s death, and now, with Ciri, as they both mourn the loss of Jaskier. 

Crying is a sign of weakness, and weakness is unacceptable for a witcher, but - he’s crying for _Jaskier_ , who had meant _so much_ to him, who’d brought light and warmth and joy into his life, and if others deem that a weakness, well, that’s their problem. If there’s one thing Geralt can do to honour Jaskier’s death, it’s to accept the existence of his emotions and master them the way Jaskier had wanted him to.

Ciri’s sniffles slowly subside, and her voice is hoarse when she whispers, “Jaskier… he - he never told me he knew you.”

Geralt thinks of Calanthe, thinks of that long-ago day in Cintra, the chaos and the whirlwind of it all, Destiny interfering at the end of the night. “No. I suppose he wouldn’t.”

It’s surprising that Calanthe had even _let_ Jaskier into Cintra, though Geralt supposes that she hadn’t seen Jaskier as a threat to her granddaughter. If Geralt had ever set foot into Cintra - well. The consequences of that had clearly been demonstrated a few days ago.

“He talked about the White Wolf,” Ciri recalls, voice hitching slightly as she delves into the now-painful memories of Jaskier. “I didn’t think much of it, but now… it’s you, isn’t it?”

Geralt smiles, a sad and painful thing, at the thought of Jaskier telling Ciri about him in the only way he could, through songs and stories and legends, through the moniker that Jaskier had first given him, so long ago, in Posada. “Yes. That was…”

“He never told me directly that he travelled with you.” Ciri’s eyes are far away. “But the way he told his stories and sang his songs… I could guess that he travelled with the White Wolf, though he never told me who it was.”

“That sounds like him.” It’s a painful reminder of Jaskier’s kindness, visiting Ciri when Geralt refused to, telling her about her destiny.

“I miss him, Geralt.” Ciri sniffs, tears once again welling up in her eyes. “I miss him _so much_.”

“Me too.” A painful fist clenches around Geralt’s heart, and he lets himself be vulnerable and honest as he confesses, “I miss him every day.”

“I wish he were here with us.” Ciri huddles closer to Geralt, squeezing her eyes shut as tears leak out of the corners. “He - he _should_ be here with us.”

Geralt _aches_ , aches with pain and loss and grief, aches with the knowledge that he’d failed to cherish what he had, and now Jaskier’s gone, and _Geralt could have saved him_. “I know.”

He wants to offer more comfort, wants to reassure her that everything will be fine, but Geralt can’t even believe that. He _doesn’t_ think anything will be fine, with Jaskier a gaping hole in both their lives, a hole that will likely scar them for a long time. And he doesn’t have the ability to properly comfort her either, because he can’t find the words, can’t string words together to make her feel better, not the way Jaskier could.

A fleeting thought paases Geralt’s mind, a whisper telling him that Jaskier would be so much better at this, and his heart aches as he reminds himself that Jaskier isn’t here to help him, not anymore, not ever again.

“Tell me,” Ciri says. A sliver of determination creeps into her eyes as she blinks her tears away. “Tell me how he died.”

Geralt tightens his jaw, looking away for a brief second as the memory of wolves and blood and twisted limbs crosses his mind, the grief of the moment washing over him all over again. He doesn’t want to tell her, doesn’t want to relive the worst moment of his life, doesn’t want to subject her to even more pain, but…

Ciri deserves to know.

“We had an argument,” Geralt starts slowly. _Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you, shoveling it?_ “He - Jaskier left without me, and I was too late in going after him. I…”

He shuts his eyes, remembering the dread that had slithered down his spine at the sound of haunting howls, the dread that had turned into shock and then into unimaginable pain when he’d slaughtered the wolves and had opened his eyes to a clearing bathed in crimson.

A soft touch on his arm, and he opens his eyes to Ciri blinking up at him in concern. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Geralt shakes the bloody image from his mind. “No, I… you deserve to know.” He swallows, forcing the words through his throat. “There were wolves. I couldn’t - couldn’t save him, I - he -”

Ciri leans into him. “It’s not your fault.”

“I could’ve saved him,” Geralt blurts shakily. He doesn’t want to unload on Ciri, doesn’t want to burden her with his problems, but the words are spilling out of his mouth and he can’t stop himself. “I was the one who yelled at him, I could’ve caught up to him earlier, I _could’ve saved him_.”

And it hurts. It hurts, the reminder that Geralt had been too late, that had he not yelled at Jaskier, had he come to his senses just a few minutes earlier, none of it would’ve happened. Jaskier would still be alive and he’d be travelling with them, a bright spot in the middle of their dark lives. Ciri would be happy, and Jaskier would help Geralt take care of her, and they would go to Kaer Morhen together - but none of that will ever happen, because Geralt had been too foolish, too slow, _too late_.

“You did what you could,” Ciri tries to reassure him, but Geralt is lost in his thoughts, knowing that he could’ve prevented it all and saved Ciri worlds of pain. Ciri has lost her family in Cintra, and now Jaskier as well, and gods, Geralt is really doing well by his child surprise, isn’t he?

“ _Geralt_.” Ciri’s voice is insistent as she tugs at his shirt. Geralt blinks out of his daze, meeting fierce green eyes. “I mean it. Don’t blame yourself - it wasn’t your fault that Jaskier - that he -” she chokes on the words, but continues resolutely, “It’s - you did the best you could.”

But he _hadn’t_. He should’ve known better than to lash out at Jaskier so unthinkingly. He should’ve known better than to let Jaskier head down the mountain, unprotected and alone. He should’ve _known better_ , because then Ciri wouldn’t have lost everything that she held dear in her life.

“I could’ve spared you this pain,” Geralt rasps, but Ciri cuts him off.

“I don’t blame you,” she says firmly. “Jaskier wouldn’t have blamed you, and Geralt, you - you’re hurting enough.” Ciri looks up at him with earnest eyes. “It _wasn’t your fault_.”

Geralt can’t bring himself to believe that. Maybe one day Ciri will wake up and look at the yawning absence in her life, and she’ll realise that Geralt had been the one to rip Jaskier away from her. Maybe one day she’ll blame him, scream at him the way he’d screamed at Jaskier on the mountain, but for now, for Ciri’s sake, Geralt lets himself smile shakily and runs a hand down her back.

Ciri’s eyes are drooping, the grief weighing on her and dragging her into the realm of exhaustion, and her tears from earlier have clearly drained her, so he lays back down on his bedroll and opens his arms. Ciri tucks herself against him, and Geralt listens to her uneven breaths as he tries to regulate his own.

“Sleep, Ciri,” he whispers, heart heavy and aching.

She does, and Geralt takes out his notebook quietly, careful not to disturb Ciri. He hesitates, quill hovering over the parchment.

_She misses you. We both do. I wish you were here with us._

He’s not good with words. Grief and heartache and guilt swirl through him, and his fist tightens around the quill, almost snapping it.

_She’s lost so much, and you would be so much better at comforting her than I am. But you’re not here, and she’s lost you too, and I’m so sorry, Jaskier. I’m sorry for failing you. I’m sorry for failing her._

_I should’ve done better._

It takes Geralt a long time before he manages to drift off into an uneasy slumber, mind filled with memories of that terrible day. Ciri is subdued the next morning, none of her usual energy as they move around their camp, quickly packing up. Geralt doesn’t try to cheer her up, knowing that she needs time to process her grief, but he’s relieved when she leans into him as usual.

For now, Ciri doesn’t blame him.

They get back on the road with none of their usual quiet conversations. Both of them are still numb from the events of last night, and while Geralt has had a year of dealing with his grief, the knowledge of Jaskier’s death is still fresh in Ciri’s mind, and Geralt knows that it isn’t easy for her, that she’ll need time and comfort before she can fully cope with it, before she can heal and recover from the scarring on her heart.

As they ride, Geralt makes a decision. Perhaps seeing it will hurt her even further, but Jaskier had meant so much to her, and Geralt has no doubt that Jaskier’s music had meant the world to her as well, so he reaches into his bags, and Ciri watches him with curiosity as he pulls out a black lute case, decorated with curling vines and golden blossoms, dotted with flecks of copper.

“Is that..”

“I couldn’t salvage it,” Geralt says quietly. He opens the case, and Ciri gasps at the contents, at the carefully arranged pieces of a once-beautiful wooden lute. “It was - it’s the only piece of him that I can keep.”

Ciri reaches over and touches the pieces gingerly, careful not to damage them further. She withdraws her hand, and Geralt closes the case, painful longing swimming through him as he takes one last look at the pieces of Jaskier’s prized possession. 

“He loved it so much,” Ciri murmurs. Her body trembles slightly and she bows her head. “I… he…”

“I know.” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut briefly. Jaskier’s lute, broken, never to play a single note again. Jaskier, gone, his voice never to grace the world ever again. 

No sound in the world will ever compare.

“He would’ve liked that you kept it,” Ciri says. She sniffles, but no tears fall as she visibly pulls herself together. “I’m glad you did.”

“I will always remember him,” Geralt rasps, and they fall into silence, a silence unbroken by the strumming of a lute, or the lilting of a song, or the dramatic retelling of tales, and it’s suffocating.

Jaskier isn’t here, but that doesn’t mean that Ciri should deserve to suffer Geralt’s silence, the way Jaskier had for so many years.

Geralt clears his throat. “Let me tell you about that time Jaskier and I passed through Kerack, and he made a fool of himself in front of hundreds of people…”

It’s the least he can do to keep Jaskier’s memory alive.

And when Ciri laughs, the sound shaky but bright and clear, Geralt thinks that maybe, even without Jaskier, he hasn’t lost the best sound in the world.

* * *

It’s with reluctance that Geralt decides to go into town to get a contract. They need the money, after all. They’ve tried to avoid towns, staying away from any and all human contact, but with how long they’ve been avoiding towns, their supplies are running out. 

Geralt takes a contract on a wyvern, and he thinks that it won’t take long, sure he and Ciri will be in and out of town in no time. But then it turns out that there are two wyverns, one that the townspeople hadn’t noticed, and though Geralt manages to kill both, he sustains multiple injuries that have Ciri crying out in worry when she sees him. 

“We need to stay in town tonight,” she insists as she flutters around him.

Geralt grunts, feeling his wounds knit together slowly. He’s sustained quite a lot of rather damaging wounds, and they will take more time to heal if they get back on the road, but for Ciri’s safety, they can’t stay. “No, we can’t.”

“We have to!” Ciri exclaims as she plants her hands on her hips. “Geralt, you _need_ to recover.”

“We’re not safe yet,” he tells her tiredly. He needs to recover, but he can do that on the road. It might take more time, but he _will_ heal, and his first priority is keeping Ciri safe, and far away from Nilfgaard. “Nilfgaard is still after us. Going into town will only draw attention to us.”

“It’s one night, Geralt,” Ciri returns stubbornly. “You’re injured, and you’re not going to recover well if we camp in the woods tonight.”

Geralt stares at her. She stands her ground.

Gods, she’s as stubborn as he is. More, in fact, because Geralt can’t help but give into Ciri’s demands, grudgingly agreeing that it’s probably a good idea.

He still feels weak and tired the next morning, but his injuries have mostly healed, so he urges Ciri to get back on the road. When they head to the stables to fetch Roach, there’s a group of middle-aged men following them, throwing them hateful glances.

Geralt places a hand on Ciri’s back protectively. She peeks at the men, then whips her head to look at Geralt fearfully.

“Come on,” Geralt urges, walking a bit faster. “Let’s get out of here.”

When Geralt and Ciri leave the stables astride Roach, the men are waiting outside, ugly sneers on their faces.

“Butcher,” one of them snarls. “You’re not welcome here.”

Ciri trembles slightly in front of Geralt, and he squeezes her arm reassuringly. “We’re leaving.”

“Fucking mutant, running around our towns -”

Roach transitions into a gallop, and the men race after them, shouting and jeering, but Roach is a witcher-trained horse, far swifter than any man, and she outpaces them easily.

It’s only when the town fades from sight that Geralt lets out a sigh of relief. Those men had clearly been ready to fight - Geralt has grown to recognise a certain _look_ in the eyes of foolish men who dare to pick fights with a witcher - and Geralt would rather not do that, with Ciri under his protection and him still exhausted from the wyverns.

“Those men were horrible,” Ciri mumbles, voice shaking slightly. 

“They were,” Geralt agrees. “I’m sorry you had to experience that.”

It’s not something Ciri should ever witness. Geralt had never wanted her to see the sheer hatred people held for witcher, never wanted her to be on the receiving end of the hatred of townspeople, and yet, she had been, just because she was with _him_ , and guilt coils in his stomach.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Ciri snaps fiercely, all traces of fear gone from her voice. “It wasn’t your fault. Those men were the ones antagonising us for no reason.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, and Ciri sighs, leaning into him.

“The world hates witchers,” she murmurs, brows furrowing. “I just - it’s not fair. You help them, and they -”

“It is how it is.” Geralt knows this far too well. He thinks of his early years on the Path, young and impressionable, thinks of how his optimism had quickly been crushed under the weight of human hatred. “The world isn’t fair.”

“It shouldn’t be like this,” Ciri says indignantly, and it’s with a pang of sadness that Geralt realises how much her righteousness reminds him of Jaskier, of his readiness to fight anyone and everyone who’d dared to speak a word against Geralt, of his rage-filled rants directed at the prejudice of his fellow humans, and Geralt - 

Geralt can see Jaskier in her, can see how he’d clearly shaped her life, and it hurts to see that reminder of Jaskier when he’s gone and will never return, but it’s with a bittersweet ache that Geralt realises that a part of Jaskier will live on in Ciri, and that Jaskier will never truly be gone. 

“No,” Geralt says, thinking of the past two decades, thinking of Jaskier. “It shouldn’t.”

* * *

They’ve been lucky. Geralt knows that Nilfgaard is after Ciri, but so far, they’ve managed to evade Nilfgaardian soldiers or mercenaries or anyone who is after them. But their luck is bound to run out eventually. 

The next day, they get ambushed. 

The fight against the wyverns two days ago had dulled his senses, and Geralt isn’t able to smell their approach. He is so focused on Ciri’s chattering that for a few moments, he lets down his guard, neglecting his surroundings.

It’s a mistake.

Between one moment and the next, dozens of people stream out of the trees, weapons in their hands. Ciri screams, but it’s not her chaos-powered scream, only a human, fearful scream. Geralt leaps off Roach and draws his swords in one smooth motion.

“Ciri, stay on Roach, and get away if you can,” he orders, and then he’s being attacked from all sides.

He dodges a swipe and slashes across a man’s torso, and parries a strike with his other sword. Someone lunges at him from behind, and Geralt steps out of the way, running that person through with his sword. The battle is fast-paced, dozens of people converging on him, and when he lops off the head of one attacker, he is immediately forced to duck under a swing, but it leaves him open and he feels a gash open across his back.

There’s too many of them, and Geralt is tiring far quicker than he normally would, still drained from the wyvern fight. He ducks and stabs his way through his attackers, but his movements are getting sluggish as he tires and his attackers manage to inflict slashes and cuts over his body.

Then Ciri cries out, terrified.

Geralt snaps his gaze to her, and watches in horror as a brawny man tugs her off Roach, who is surrounded by several attackers. She’s kicking and screaming, but she’s no match for the man’s strength.

This distraction costs him, and a sword sinks into his side. He grunts in pain and decapitates the woman who stabbed him, but the damage is done, as he feels himself weakening.

Geralt manages to block a sword to his right, but his movements are getting heavy and he’s barely able to catch the knife headed for his throat. He slits the throat of the woman who had come at him with the knife, but he’s too slow to stop the dagger that slices down his arm, loosening his hold on his sword.

“STOP!” A voice roars, and Geralt freezes as he sees the brawny man from earlier holding a knife to Ciri’s throat. She’s breathing heavily, eyes wide with fear, and _fuck_.

“Stop fighting, Butcher,” the man snaps. “Or this one gets killed.”

The man won’t kill her, Geralt knows. Nilfgaard wants Ciri, and they want her alive. Ciri is pleading with him with her eyes to keep going, keep fighting, but he knows that these people will have no qualms harming her. There are many ways to harm someone without killing them, and for many perverted people, a young girl is the perfect target for that.

So Geralt drops his swords and raises his hands, sinking to his knees in surrender.

“ _No_ ,” Ciri breathes in horror. The man’s grip tightens around her throat, and she sputters, struggling to breathe.

“Stop harming her,” Geralt growls. “I’ve stopped fighting.”

“A wise decision, Butcher,” the man says with a sickening smile as he lets go of Ciri. She falls to the ground, breathing heavily, and Geralt wants to punch his ugly, condescending face in. The man gestures to the others. “Tie them up.”

Several people grab Geralt roughly, binding his hands behind his back. The brawny man lifts Ciri and ties her up, and Geralt growls in fury at how roughly they’re treating her - how _dare_ they place their hands on her. There’s fear in Ciri’s eyes, hidden by resolute anger, as their captors drag them over to a tree and wind thick ropes around them.

They can’t escape. Their attackers are skilled, highly trained, and even if Geralt gets out of his bindings, he has no hope of fighting them off, especially with his injuries and the deep stab wound. His swords are on the other side of the clearing, and he has no way of getting to them. He also has Ciri to consider, knowing that their attackers will not hesitate to harm her to ensure that Geralt will comply.

He doubts that they will get out of this easily. He has to believe that they will, because he _needs_ to see Ciri safe, needs to protect her, but for now, Geralt sees no way out. He tries to fight the sense of hopelessness dawning on him, telling himself that it’s fine, they’ll get out -

Across the clearing, a man’s head flies off with a flash of steel, and another man falls to the ground, a knife embedded in his chest with frightening accuracy.

There’s a man in black, wielding a steel sword with impossible skill, cutting down their captors. A witcher, Geralt realises, as the man casts Aard when several people charge him.

The witcher fights with inhuman grace and speed, vicious in his attacks as he cuts down his attackers like paper. There’s a predatory glint in his eyes as he fights, a look that puts Geralt on edge, but somehow tugs at the edge of his mind.

Why does he feel like he's seen that feral, predatory look before?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … i’m cruel to cut it off here, aren’t i? tbh i was planning on cutting it off at the lute part, but i really wanted to end the chapter just as jaskier approaches them, just like in jaskier’s pov hehe (this means i keep posting 5-6k chapters instead of 3-4k chapters, so i’m taking longer to update sorry!)
> 
> hopefully ciri’s grief was well-portrayed - i hope it doesn’t seem like i glossed over it too much, but if anyone wants more depth, well… i wouldn’t be opposed to writing a few short snippets from ciri’s pov:)
> 
> btw, does anyone see the parallel with jaskier’s pov when the people antagonised geralt and ciri in the town? (it’s the feral part)
> 
> next update will be back in jaskier’s pov, but if you want me to update this next instead, just comment and tell me your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> turns out that it's really fucking hard to write the same events from different perspectives without making them repetitive, who knew? i was really struggling with this, hence the late update, sorry guys!

Once every person is dead, the witcher heads over to them. With a shock, Geralt realises that the witcher’s hair is as white as his own, though much of it is coated in drying blood. He’s never met another witcher who’s received extra mutations just as he has, and it makes him wary, because whoever he is, whatever his motivations are, this man is  _ dangerous _ .

Geralt studies the witcher’s face as he saws through their bindings. His face is splattered with blood, but Geralt can see the scars that slash across his face in jagged lines. Inwardly, he winces in pain for the other witcher - the scars look painful and brutal, undoubtedly a result of a hunt gone wrong, something that every witcher has been through. The scars are a sign that this witcher has _survived_ , that he’s endured, and some part of Geralt notes absently that while the scars mar the witcher’s face, they only serve to accentuate the witcher’s surprisingly handsome features. 

Geralt pushes the thought out of his mind. The pain from his wounds must be getting to him. 

But there’s a niggling at the edge of his mind, and he feels like there is _something_ he should know. The feeling only grows the longer he studies the witcher, and the emptiness that Jaskier left in his heart seems to ache and _ache_. 

Is he missing something?

He feels… strange around this witcher. Geralt doesn’t trust him. He has just witnessed him in action, and the witcher is fast and skilful and deadly, and with his extra mutations, Geralt has no doubt that this witcher is extremely dangerous. 

Coupled with the strange feeling that he’s getting when he looks at the witcher, Geralt is wary, so the moment he’s free, he steps in front of Ciri. As weakened as Geralt is, this witcher will have to go through him to get to her. 

If the witcher does have malicious intentions, Geralt may very well be on the losing end of the fight, but he _will not_ let Ciri get hurt. 

The witcher watches Geralt with something indecipherable in his eyes. “Well…?” he drawls in an insolent tone that sets Geralt on edge. He’s wiping the blood from his sword casually, and Geralt does _not_ like to be reminded that he himself is unarmed in the presence of this stranger. “Not going to thank me for saving your lives?”

When Geralt doesn’t respond, shoulders tense as he remains on guard, the witcher heaves a sigh.

“A thank you would be nice,” he says pointedly. Geralt does not thank him, and the witcher continues, “I know you have your stubborn pride or whatever, but we both know you wouldn’t have gotten out of that unless you were very, very lucky.”

At the witcher’s words, Geralt grits his teeth, knowing that he’s _right_ , and he hates it. 

“You’re weak from blood loss, and you’re disarmed.” The witcher’s gaze lingers on the empty space behind Geralt’s shoulders. “You wouldn’t have escaped.”

Truth rings in his words, and as much as he hates to admit it, Geralt knows that had it not been for the witcher, he and Ciri may not have gotten out of this. Even so, this doesn’t make him any less wary of the other witcher. 

There’s something about this witcher’s tone that makes Geralt’s skin itch, familiar in a way he can’t place. It’s a tone that few people dare to use on him - most people fear him too much to challenge him like that, but there isn’t a hint of fear or apprehension in this witcher. It’s strange, and perhaps rather suspicious. Even Geralt’s fellow witchers fear him, after all, and yet, this witcher stands before him, undaunted. 

This fearlessness, this boldness… it reminds him of - of -

“Look, I don’t mean you any harm, I promise,” the witcher snaps, voice growing irate at Geralt’s unresponsiveness. “You need help, and you need to get away from here as soon as possible because Nilfgaard has people _everywhere_ , so will you just let me help?”

Frustration colours the witcher’s words, and Geralt blinks, taken aback by his outburst, by his tone, a tone that has rarely been directed at Geralt before, and - now is _not_ the time to think about Jaskier. 

There’s something about this witcher that seems to send Geralt’s mind and his heart into a whirl of confusion, a mess of emotions, of suspicion and inexplicable yearning, bringing up memories, fond and painful and Geralt needs to _stop_. 

Ciri, he reminds himself. Whatever the witcher makes him feel, whoever the witcher may be, Geralt’s concerns should lie with Ciri first and foremost, and fighting through the haze of pain from his wounds, Geralt tries to assess the situation. 

As much as he would like to take Ciri and go, Geralt sees no other option than to trust this witcher and get out of here as soon as possible. At the very least, the witcher hasn’t tried to kill them yet. 

Casting a quick glance over the clearing, Geralt spots his swords and belongings stashed on the far side of it. 

“I need my swords and my gear,” Geralt grunts out to the witcher before he heads over to retrieve his swords, Ciri trailing behind him. 

Once they’re far enough from the witcher - not far enough to he out of range of witcher hearing, but far enough to give them the illusion of privacy - Geralt fusses over Ciri a little bit, beyond glad that the Nilfgaardians hadn’t wanted to harm her.

“Can we trust him?” Ciri whispers. Her gaze darts towards the witcher, and she looks at Geralt apprehensively. “Who is he, another witcher? Do you know him?”

_ Can we trust him? _

Some part of Geralt, the part of him that aches and aches, wants to trust this witcher, wants to believe that he has good intentions, but Geralt has lived too long and seen far too much, and he knows better than to trust blindly, but still, he can’t help but think…

_ Do you know him? _

No, he doesn’t. Geralt has never seen this witcher in his long, long life. 

And yet. 

Why is he so painfully familiar?

Geralt begins to respond to Ciri before he remembers that the other witcher is undoubtedly able to hear their conversation, and since Geralt can’t trust him, not yet, he keeps his mouth shut as he leads Ciri back. 

So far, the witcher hasn’t exhibited any hostility towards them, save for his outburst when Geralt had stared at him without responding, but there’s something about this witcher that gets under Geralt’s skin, something that irritates him and nags at him and prods at him, and Geralt doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know whether to trust him.

Sure, if the witcher was working with Nilfgaard, he would clearly be skilled enough to take down Geralt in his weakened state, so perhaps the witcher does mean them no harm, but Geralt is reluctant to believe that he has no ulterior motive. There is no reason for him to help out Geralt and Ciri, a witcher and a young girl who are strangers to him, who mean nothing to him - why is he helping them?

This feeling of suspicion intensifies as the witcher offers, “I can patch you up.” 

Why would this mysterious witcher offer to help him when they are merely strangers? It makes no sense at all. 

Sensing Geralt’s distrust, the witcher sighs. “If I was going to kill you, or take you to Nilfgaard, I would’ve done it while you were vulnerable and unarmed.”

“Hmm.” Sceptical, Geralt remarks, “And I’m just supposed to believe you.”

The witcher purses his lips. “You’re weak and injured,” he points out. “Do you have a better option?”

Geralt doesn’t, and he hates it, hates that this strange witcher with unknown motives is his best option, hates that he needs to trust a complete and utter stranger. “I don’t know you.” 

Something twists in the witcher’s face. Geralt’s gut clenches slightly, like he’s said something wrong, and today has been so weird for him - why is he feeling like this? 

“And I just freed you.” The witcher’s expression sharpens to a frosty glare, which only serves to put Geralt’s hackles up. “I have no reason to harm either of you, I assure you.”

Geralt narrows his eyes at the witcher. “And why would I trust you?” He shifts in front of Ciri, ready to spring into action even as his wounds are strained to the point of being near unbearable.

Unexpectedly, the witcher’s hard glare softens. “Look, I’m just trying to help, here. Just - let me, okay?”

His tone is almost desperate, which is... Geralt can’t quite shake the strange feeling churning in his gut, and he wants to hold onto his pride for a few moments, wants to refuse help, wants to take Ciri and _go_. But he’s in pain all over, barely able to hold himself upright, and he finally gives in, grunting an affirmation at the witcher. 

The witcher grabs a potion and hands it to Geralt. “This is my own personal concoction, and it will heal you up faster than your own potions.”

Huh. This witcher is turning out to be more and more interesting - Geralt hasn’t met any witchers who brew their own ‘personal concoctions’. 

He’s suspicious, but he’s gotten this far, so he gulps the potion down, hoping that it won’t kill him. The witcher continues talking - quite a lot for a witcher, actually. Most of his kind prefer expressing themselves in less words.

This witcher is turning out to be more and more peculiar. 

“It will staunch your bleeding a bit, but you’ve got a lot of wounds, and some of them are deep,” the witcher says matter-of-factly. “You need to patch them up. I’ve got some bandages on my horse - she’s not far, and I can patch you up until you heal up or find a healer.”

The witcher turns away and starts walking in the direction of the road, presumably towards his horse, and Geralt eyes him warily. The witcher’s back is exposed to Geralt, a dangerous move, and Geralt realises that it’s a show of vulnerability to get Geralt to trust him.

Theoretically, Geralt could run the witcher through with his sword right now. Well, not really, since he’s bleeding from multiple wounds, but the sentiment is there, so Geralt grudgingly decides to follow him.

Something tugs at his mind as he follows the witcher, Ciri trailing behind him. It’s something that he _should_ know, but Geralt can’t pick up on it, the haze of pain from his wounds clouding his thoughts, and it’s _frustrating_.

The witcher stops by a sleek grey horse, fishing through his bags to take out a handful of medical supplies. “Do you want to do it yourself, or shall I?” 

Wordlessly, Geralt takes the supplies from the witcher, and sits down on a nearby rock. As he tends to his wounds, he keeps his senses alert, ready to spring into action should the witcher mean any harm to Ciri, who hovers around him anxiously. But the witcher is still, heartbeat slow and breathing even as he watches Geralt, and his behaviour puzzles Geralt to no end - there’s no reason for the witcher to be so - so nice. There’s no reason for him to help Geralt and Ciri, saving them from Nilfgaard, giving Geralt supplies to tend to his wounds.

No one has cared for Geralt’s wellbeing since - since. Well. He pushes the thought away, unwilling to be reminded of who he had lost, grief rising within him. It’s been so long since someone has offered to patch up his wounds, so long since someone has _cared_ for him, and yet, this strange witcher is here, offering his help to Geralt, _caring_ for him, and Geralt doesn’t know _why_.

“Why,” Geralt grunts, and pauses. The witcher raises his eyebrows, golden eyes questioning, and Geralt searches for the words through the cloud of pain.

“Why are you helping us.” Geralt grits out, clenching his teeth at the pain that rips through him. He sways slightly, and Ciri rushes to steady him, but he keeps his eyes on the witcher before him, who’s looking at Geralt with an expression that seems almost sad.

A moment passes, and the witcher continues gazing at Geralt with that sad look in his eyes, and Geralt pushes away the rising sense of familiarity as he repeats, “Why are you helping us?” He musters his remaining strength, injecting it into his voice. “Who are you?”

The witcher tenses slightly, and Geralt spots his shoulders tightening in the periphery of his vision, a defensive action that has Geralt immediately on alert, hands ready to reach for his sword.

“Julian of the Manticore school,” the witcher - Julian says, and Geralt blinks, looking up from his wounds. He remembers the Mass Hunt, all those decades ago, thinks of Vesemir’s mournful voice the last time he’d been at Kaer Morhen, _the last Manticore died a few years ago_.

Geralt looks at Julian, taking him in. “I thought all the Manticores were dead.”

A flash of pain crosses Julian’s face, his eyes gaining a distant look, and Geralt berates himself for his careless words. He knows full well the pain of losing his brothers, and clearly he’s reminded Julian of his own painful experiences. The Mass Hunt had been brutal, and if Julian is truly the only surviving member of the Manticore school, Geralt can’t even begin to imagine how lonely he must feel, how acute the loss of his fellow witchers must be.

The distant look is gone in a flash as Julian visibly gathers himself, and he gestures to the medallion displayed proudly on his chest. “Clearly not,” Julian remarks.

Geralt frowns. Around a decade ago, when he’d been wintering in Kaer Morhen, Vesemir had told him that the last Manticore had died on the Path, but this witcher before him now is clearly a Manticore witcher, with his medallion and the potion he’d given Geralt earlier. Had Vesemir been wrong?

Before Geralt can vocalise his questions, a burning lance of pain drives through his side, and he doubles over, biting back a cry of pain.

Fuck. He’d forgotten about the stab wound.

In a flash, Julian is next to him, prying Geralt’s hands from where they’d been clutching at the wound. Geralt growls at the contact, confused by Julian’s actions, but he’s too weak to shake Julian off.

Julian’s hands flutter anxiously as he reaches for his kit, his voice frantic. “Shit, I didn’t see the stab wound.” Geralt blinks at him, pain still running through him as Julian babbles on, “We need to clean it, _fuck_ , I don’t have all my supplies, where’s the rest of my kit?”

There’s concern and worry in his voice. No one has shown Geralt any hint of concern in over a year, and now this total stranger is fretting over him, frazzled with anxiety, and memories of Jaskier flash through his mind, memories of Jaskier desperately treating his wounds after hunts, memories of the way his continuous rambling had hidden his worry, memories of Jaskier’s gentle touches and careful hands, but they’re just that - memories. Geralt will never have Jaskier’s gentle hands on him again, tending to his injuries. 

Geralt’s heart clenches as he watches Julian’s hand running over his stab wound, and the sight of silver hair and golden eyes pulls him back to the present. This isn’t Jaskier, Geralt tells himself fiercely, even as Julian’s hands, careful and gentle, feel _too familiar_. This isn’t Jaskier, because Jaskier is _dead_ , and this man in front of him is a witcher, blood on his face and swords on his back, and no matter how gentle his hands are, _he isn’t Jaskier_.

But Julian’s forehead is scrunched up in a way that’s all too familiar, and the way his hands deftly tend to Geralt’s wound, the way no one else ever has before -

_ No _ . Geralt fiercely shuts down that train of thought. No good will come out of it. 

Jaskier is dead. Julian is a witcher, an utter stranger, and Geralt doesn’t even know if he can be trusted.

“Ciri,” Julian says, and Geralt flinches, feeling Ciri do the same behind him as a bolt of shock hits him. 

They had never told Julian Ciri’s name.

Oblivious to their reactions, Julian continues in a tone that suggests too much familiarity for someone they’ve just met. “Can you get the rest of my kit from Pegasus’ saddlebags, cub? It’s in the brown bag.”

_ Cub? _

“ _How do you know my name?_ ” Ciri demands, voice shaking as she inches behind Geralt, and Geralt snarls, leaping away from Julian and pulling Ciri behind him. His wound screams in pain at his sudden movements, but he shuts it out as much as he can, mustering up the last of his energy to point his sword at the witcher in front of him.

“You know her name,” Geralt growls, levelling a threatening glare at Julian. He had _known_ that Julian’s help was too good to be true - no random witcher would happen to come across them and be so friendly and caring. 

(No one would ever care for him the way Jaskier had.)

Geralt knows he stands no chance against Julian should the other witcher choose to attack. He’s weak and wounded, after all, and Julian is barely even winded from his earlier fight, but Geralt will be damned before he lets anyone touch Ciri.

“What do you _want?_ ” Geralt snarls, and next to him, he sees Ciri’s hands inch towards her dagger, his medallion humming as chaos fills the air. 

Julian sighs, an unimpressed expression on his face. His eyes flick to Geralt’s sword, looking utterly undaunted by Geralt’s threat.

“Look, like I said, I’m not here to harm you,” Julian says, turning his palms up. “Just - sit back down, okay? You got _stabbed_ , you shouldn’t be moving, just sit down and I can explain.”

Geralt doesn’t move from his position. Julian may make up as many excuses as he wants, but there is no reason for him to know Ciri’s name - Geralt is the only witcher Ciri has ever known, which means he must have gotten her name from another source. 

Geralt will not let him take Ciri. 

He grits his teeth, fighting the waves of pain that course through him. “What. Do. You. _Want_.” 

Something resigned flickers over Julian’s face as he crosses his arms, turning to face Geralt fully. “Do I, I don’t know, maybe remind you of someone?” 

Geralt stares at Julian uncomprehendingly, taken aback at the unexpected question. He thinks of cornflower blue eyes, cheerful smiles, melodious tunes - no. 

Jaskier is dead.

Julian exhales loudly. “Maybe take a closer look at my face? The scars are pretty ugly, I’m aware,” his face twists into a bitter, self-deprecating smile, “but surely they’re not so bad that you can’t even bear having a closer look at my face.”

Geralt wants to look away, wants to squash the thoughts that rise, unbidden, to the front of his mind, thoughts of a person long dead. But he forces himself to look, to _really_ look at Julian, and the niggling in his mind grows stronger. Geralt looks at Julian, looks at him _properly_ , looks past the silver hair and golden eyes and scars and blood, and the face he sees -

It’s impossible.

Ciri gasps.

It’s impossible. It can’t be.

Because Jaskier is dead.

But this man - this witcher in front of him, staring at him with crossed arms, has Jaskier’s face. Disregarding the hair and eyes and scars, Geralt can make out the familiar shape of Jaskier’s eyes, the slope of his nose and the set of his jaw, the curve of the mouth that Geralt’s eyes have traced thousands of times.

So, so familiar, but utterly impossible. 

Jaskier’s face, slack and devoid of light and life. His eyes, lifeless and glassy, staring into nothing. Blood, crimson soaking into the earth. A body, broken and pale and unmoving. A lute, cracked beyond repair. 

_ Dead.  _

“No… it’s not possible,” Geralt breathes out. He looks over Julian - Jaskier, flicking his eyes over that familiar-unfamiliar face, over long silver hair and golden eyes and scars. This can’t be real. Jaskier wasn’t a witcher, and Geralt must be projecting his grief.

But this witcher looks _so much like him_ , and Geralt misses Jaskier so, so much, misses Jaskier with everything in him, and he needs to get closer, to _see_ , so he takes a shaky step towards the ghost in front of him, trembling so much that he drops his sword. “Ja - he’s _dead_. I saw his body. You can’t - he can’t - you _can’t_ be him.”

The ghost stumbles back, and Geralt feels his tenuous grasp on reality slipping, his world tilting to the side. Is he hallucinating? Has Jaskier’s ghost come to haunt him, and taunt him by coming back as a witcher?

He needs to check that it’s real, because - because it can’t be. He needs to make sure Jaskier doesn’t disappear, because Geralt can’t lose him, not again. 

Geralt lunges forward and his hands touch solid skin and this is real, he’s real, Jaskier’s _here_ , and Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier’s shoulders as he drinks in Jaskier’s face like a man dying in a desert. It’s simultaneously everything and nothing like Jaskier at all, but even as he meets unfamiliar eyes, as golden as his own, Geralt _knows_ , deep down, that somehow, this is Jaskier.

“W-what -”

It’s Jaskier’s voice. Maybe a bit rougher than he remembers, the perpetual bright, cheery tone heartbreakingly absent, but Geralt would know Jaskier’s voice anywhere, knows it from years of listening intently to him, his chattering and laughter and songs, knows it better than his own. 

And if the impossible has happened, if this ghost in front of him is truly Jaskier come back to life… 

Geralt involuntarily flashes back to the scene of Jaskier’s body, mauled and bloody, and the sheer _agony_ hits him once again, an agony more acute than anything he’s ever felt as a witcher, more painful than the Trials, more devastating than Blaviken. 

“It’s - it’s _you_.” Geralt stares at Jaskier, drinking him in greedily, desperate to have confirmation that Jaskier is truly here with him, that he won’t disappear, that Geralt won’t lose him. “But - how? You’re - Jaskier, you’re _dead_ , I - I saw you, what…”

As he speaks, another wave of anguish assaults his body, overcoming the physical pain of his stab wound as the stench of Jaskier’s blood fills his nostrils, crimson coating his vision, and Jaskier should be dead, but he’s here, and Geralt can’t take his eyes off his face for fear of losing him the moment he turns away.

Jaskier is real. He’s here. He’s _alive_.

“You, you were -” Geralt breaks off pain lances through his wound, and he barely registers his knees hitting the ground, a pained grunt escaping his mouth as he clutches at his injury. Fuck, stab wounds _hurt_.

Then there’s the familiar presence of Jaskier kneeling beside him, applying pressure on his wounds, the gentleness of his hands oh so familiar, and gods, Geralt had _missed_ this, missed Jaskier fussing over him, and how had he never appreciated Jaskier before?

Jaskier is ranting, golden eyes alight with anger, and as unfamiliar as this face is, the irritation that bleeds into his voice is all Jaskier. “I _told_ you, you fucking idiot, to _sit back down_ because you have a _motherfucking stab wound_ , and you didn’t listen to me, _like you never do,_ you colossal moron, and now look what just happened,” Jaskier snaps, his fury and exasperation bringing back memories of simpler times, and Geralt is so, _so_ grateful that he gets to have this again, to have Jaskier puffing up in anger at Geralt’s recklessness, when he’d thought he had lost it all.

“For once in your life you could have listened to me, but _no_ , you had to do the stubborn witcher act, _again_.” Gods, it’s so familiar, the feeling of Jaskier’s gentle hands tending to his wounds as he rants in indignation.

Geralt tries to speak, tries to articulate _Jaskier, Jaskier, I’ve missed you so much_ , but Jaskier cuts in, “ _Also_ , I’m still mad at you.” 

And at that, Geralt flinches, recalling wind whipping past his hair on a mountain, remembering _if life could give me one blessing_ , remembers pained blue eyes and the scent of heartbreak in the air. 

“So if you feel the urge to say _anything_ like what you said last time we saw each other,” Jaskier rants, waving the needle in his hand, “Keep in mind that I have a _very_ sharp needle in my hand.” 

How had he lived a year without Jaskier’s chatter, without his voice babbling in Geralt’s ears? Even with the stab wound carving a hole into his side, he feels less - hollow, now that Jaskier is here, the empty ache within him slowly filling with warmth. 

Geralt opens his mouth. He wants to tell Jaskier how much he’d missed him, how sorry he is, how he would do _anything_ to keep him by his side, but pain spears through his body as he tries to speak, and Jaskier sends him a warning glare. 

It’s a glare that Geralt is familiar with over years of Jaskier patching him up after hunts, years of Jaskier sternly telling him not to move so as to not aggravate the wound, years of Jaskier looking pointedly at him to keep still, and let him do his work. 

Over the past year, he had to tend to his injuries alone, and it had been achingly lonely, horrible and empty. And now Jaskier is here, glaring at him with a familiar warning in his newly golden eyes, holding the needle with a distinctly threatening air, and something in Geralt seizes. 

Geralt snaps his mouth shut. 

Ciri hands Jaskier a small bag, and Geralt’s heart stutters as Jaskier sends her a grateful smile, a smile that lightens his scarred face and softens his harsh amber eyes. It’s a smile that Geralt had thought he would never see again, but he’s finally seeing it after a year, and what if he loses that smile, that brightness, again? 

Had he not been in unbearable pain, Geralt would be reaching out to trace that smile with his fingers. Possibly his lips. He wants to capture it and keep it with him forever. 

Jaskier works on Geralt’s wound, face pinched in concentration as his steady hands patch up the injury, and Geralt revels in the familiarity of it, of Jaskier tending to his wounds with gentle hands, and he sinks into the warmth of Jaskier’s careful touch. 

It doesn’t even matter that Jaskier seems to be a witcher now. It doesn’t matter that his hair is silver, that his eyes are gold, that his face is scarred. It doesn’t matter that he’s splattered with blood, two deadly swords on his back, dark armour covering his body. It doesn’t matter that he’d slaughtered ten men without breaking a sweat, his hands brimming with the power of the signs and his sword a deadly instrument of death. 

It doesn’t matter, none of it matters, because Jaskier is _here_ and he’s alive. He’s _real_ , his fingers pressing against Geralt’s skin, he’s _here_ , a warm presence beside Geralt, he’s _alive,_ the slow thump of his heart steady and grounding. 

Geralt doesn’t take his eyes off the miracle before him. He doesn’t dare to, and if he has his way, Geralt won’t let Jaskier out of his sight ever again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone give poor geralt a hug, he's having a LOT of emotions here (i have no idea how to write his emotions either, so this whole thing is a mess lmao)
> 
> next update in jaskier's pov will feature some shirtless sparring between bros, some bathing between bros, a lot of blushing, a lot of dumb himbos in denial


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok hello i know it's been ages since i last updated this series but i promise you that it's NOT abandoned! i have plans for it and i don't intend to abandon it, though updates may be slow since i'm not really that motivated to write all the time, sorry!
> 
> (oh, also, i'm just going to casually mention that all the characters in this fic are poc now - once i update the main fic, i'll also link my fancasts. there is art for [dev patel as julian of cintra](https://broskier.tumblr.com/post/633796409503662080/apparently-ihaveoftendreamedofafaroffplaceskier) and [booboo stewart as geralt](https://broskier.tumblr.com/post/636343892422344704/i-struggled-a-lot-to-get-this-right-but-here-is), they’re SO GOOD!)
> 
> severe self esteem issues on both sides here, both of them are wallowing in self hatred and geralt is grieving and hence places undue blame on himself - just as i have stressed on the main fic for julian, geralt is not a reliable narrator here either, his perspectives is severely skewed and he’s just... a sad boy and needs the biggest hugs

Gods, this is so - it’s so achingly _familiar_ , the gentle press of Jaskier’s touch as he stitches up Geralt’s wound with steady hands, the way his brows furrow in concentration, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. After the dragon hunt - after that day, Geralt had thought he wouldn’t get to have this again. He had thought with despair that he would never get to feel Jaskier’s touch again, would never have Jaskier’s attention focused on him, and only on him - but Jaskier is here, his touch warm and grounding, and Geralt wants to hold him close, wants to never let him go. 

He’d lost Jaskier once. He doesn’t think he can do it again. 

Geralt is hyperaware of Jaskier’s hands on him, of the way his fingers skim gently over Geralt’s skin. Every touch sends warmth singing through him, chasing away the pain of the wound, and Geralt can do nothing but gaze at Jaskier in wonder, in awe that maybe - maybe he gets this second chance. 

He almost mourns the loss of Jaskier’s touch when Jaskier finishes the stitches, withdrawing from Geralt and slumping back in exhaustion. He wants to chase that touch, but fuck, he’s in too much pain to do so, and with how warily Jaskier has been looking at him, he doesn’t think the touch will be welcome. 

“Jaskier?” Ciri asks, voice quiet with a slight tremor, and Geralt casts his gaze over to her to see her staring at Jaskier with wide eyes, looking as hopeful and disbelieving as Geralt feels. 

_Jaskier_ . Geralt hasn’t heard that name since he’d headed down the mountain a year ago, and with Ciri speaking Jaskier’s name out loud, it’s a confirmation that Jaskier is well and truly _here_ , not just a figment of Geralt’s imagination.

“Is that…” Ciri’s voice wobbles. “Is that really you?”

Jaskier looks at her for a moment before a gentle smile spreads over his face, a smile brings thousands of fond memories to Geralt’s mind and makes his heart ache with longing and pain, a smile that makes him think of quiet nights by a campfire, laughter on the Path, ringing melodies in a tavern - a smile that Geralt never thought he would see again, and Geralt can’t look away. 

Still smiling, Jaskier opens his arms to Ciri, beckoning, “Come here, cub.”

Ciri throws herself into Jaskier’s arms, burying her face into his shoulder, unheeding of the blood and gore as Jaskier wraps his arms around her. Watching them, a fire in his wound and an ache in his heart, Geralt feels himself soften with tenderness as Jaskier and Ciri find comfort in one another, their grips tight around each other in a way that speaks of intimacy and familiarity and _family_. Geralt longs to be included in that embrace, longs for Jaskier to embrace him like he used to - warm and without reservation - but he knows that it’s not his place

When Ciri speaks, her voice is hushed and thick with tears. “Geralt said you were _dead_.” The salt of her tears hits Geralt’s nose, and he itches to pull her against his chest and comfort her, but Jaskier beats him to it, pulling her closer and making a soothing noise as he strokes her hair, Ciri visibly sinking into his touch.

“They’re dead, Jaskier. Grandmother, Eist, Mousesack - they’re all dead, they’re gone,” Ciri whimpers, and Geralt’s heart breaks for her all over again at how much she’s lost at such a young age, a devastation that is mirrored on Jaskier’s face as he holds Ciri tighter in his arms. “And I thought - I thought I’d lost you too, and I -”

She breaks into heart wrenching sobs, and Geralt has to look away from Ciri and Jaskier for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut as pressure builds behind his eyes.

Gods, he should’ve been there for her. He should never have neglected her for so many years - if he’d been there for her, he would be able to reassure her like Jaskier is now, but he hadn’t been, and it’s all he can do to watch helplessly as Jaskier comforts her. 

“There, there, cub,” Geralt hears Jaskier murmur, the tone of his voice dredging up fond memories of how he would interact with children in towns and villages, brightening their spirits with songs and laughter. “I’m here, see? I’m alive and - well, it’s a long story, and I know I look different, and I’m not as pretty as I used to be.” Glancing at Jaskier, Geralt is rather inclined to disagree on that one. Witcher or human, scars or not - Jaskier will always be beautiful. “But I’m right here, sweetheart. Don’t cry, cub, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Jaskier is looking at Ciri with tender eyes, and Geralt aches to reach out. Fuck, Geralt has _missed_ him, missed his gentleness and his affection, even though he _knows_ that Jaskier won’t turn that affection onto Geralt, not after what he’d done. He’s missed how tender Jaskier is with people, how much he loves, how much he _cares._

“Jaskier, what happened?” Ciri questions, staring at Jaskier, taking in those features, a mix of familiar and unfamiliar but still _Jaskier_ all the same, and Geralt finds himself leaning forward slightly. Part of him is grieving and in shock, still, but Jaskier is somehow _here_ , and Geralt wants to know why and how Jaskier has been brought back to him. 

Jaskier presses a kiss to Ciri’s forehead, a gesture so filled with parental affection that Geralt’s heart swells. Locking eyes with Geralt for a brief moment, Jaskier gets gracefully to his feet, and Geralt has to force himself not to startle too much when he meets golden instead of the blue he’d expected. There’s nothing wrong with that golden colour, of course - instead, Geralt finds that he quite likes it; it suits Jaskier well - but it’s different from what he’s used to.

“It’s a long story,” Jaskier deflects, pulling Ciri up with him. “I promise I’ll tell you later, but we really need to get somewhere safe so Geralt can recover, just in case there’s anyone after you still.”

He then turns towards Geralt. “Where’s Roach?”

Ciri answers before Geralt can. “She ran off. We don’t know where she went.”

When Ciri confirms that Roach had run off from where they’d been held earlier, Jaskier nods briskly. “I can track her down, bring her back.” 

At that, a decades-old instinct rises in Geralt, one that screams at him to _protect_ , and he tries to protest, but Jaskier cuts in, eyes sharp. “Geralt, you’re in _no_ shape to be going after Roach right now. _I’ll_ go and bring her back, and _you’re_ going to stay here with Ciri.” 

_But you can’t_ , Geralt wants to say. _He_ should be the one to go. After all, there’s no telling whether there might still be any Nilfgaardians lurking in the woods, and Geralt can’t risk Jaskier going to find Roach in such danger.

He can’t risk losing Jaskier again. 

Next to him, Ciri rears up, indignant and ready to insist on getting involved, but Jaskier once again cuts in, “Ciri, Geralt is in no shape to fight,” There’s a familiar veiled exasperation to his tone, one that Jaskier had used on Geralt when he was being particularly stubborn, and it settles something within Geralt to hear that tone directed at him again. “If anyone comes, you’ll need to defend him.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, Jaskier procures a silver dagger, edges sharp and deadly, and hands it to Ciri. Ciri has her own weapons - Geralt had made sure of that, but she takes Jaskier’s dagger without complaint, even as a small pout twists her lips.

When Jaskier makes to leave, murmuring a quick “I won’t be long,” Ciri clings to Jaskier with a desperation that Geralt feels deep in his soul, and the sight of Jaskier walking _away_ makes Geralt’s heart lurch in dread. Neither of them want to let Jaskier out of their sight, especially since they’ve just gotten him back, and if Geralt weren’t incapacitated by his wound, he would be following Jaskier, unwilling to let him go alone.

But Geralt is far too injured to make any major movements, and Ciri slowly lets go of Jaskier when he raises an expectant eyebrow at her. 

Jaskier heads in the direction of Roach, and watching him leave, watching him one step after another away from Ciri, away from Geralt - it’s agony, and when he disappears from sight, Ciri lets out a shaky breath.

“G-Geralt.” A tear slips down her cheek, and she hastily wipes it away. “I thought - you said - he’s _back_ , Geralt, he’s not - he’s a witcher somehow, but he’s, he’s -”

Geralt knows what Ciri is feeling. Impossible hope, tangled with disbelief, tangled with fear that this isn’t real, that this won’t last, that they’ll lose Jaskier. Again. 

He reaches for her weakly, and she lets him gather her in his arms even as his wound aches at the movement. “He’s here, Ciri.” He can’t quite believe it, but Jaskier is _here_ , and back with them, and Geralt will never let him go again. “I don’t - I don’t know about the witcher thing, but...”

“He’s back, and that’s what matters,” Ciri finishes for him, slowly untangling herself from his arms, careful not to jostle his injuries. “I just… is this real?”

Good things like this don’t happen to Geralt, but Geralt can’t tell Ciri that, so he whispers brokenly, “Yeah, Ciri. He’s - he’s real.”

Speaking it out loud seems like a confirmation - that Jaskier is truly back with them, that he hadn’t died on that mountain, that he’s _alive_ , and _fuck_ , if this is a dream, if Geralt wakes up to a world where Jaskier is _still dead_ … he doesn’t know what he will do. He doesn’t think he can bear it. 

The sound of hooves reaches Geralt’s ears just before Jaskier emerges from the trees, leading Roach by the reins. Jaskier casts a quick, cursory glance over Geralt. “Can you get on Roach?”

Right. They need to leave. Geralt heaves himself onto his feet, determinedly holding back a flinch as pain shoots through his body, and walks over to Roach, unable to stop himself from stumbling, each step more painful than the next. When he tries to pull himself onto Roach’s saddle, his stab wound flares up and he doubles over with a groan.

Fuck, he can’t even get on his fucking _horse_. He’s had worse injuries before, but now, he can’t even walk in a straight line, much less muster enough strength to get on Roach.

At the corner of his vision, Geralt sees Jaskier approaching slowly, hands reaching out to help, and, on instinct borne out of lonely decades on the Path, Geralt almost grunts at him to get back, because he can do this on his own, he doesn’t _need_ help.

“Let me help.” It’s a phrase familiar from years and years of hunts, when Geralt had hurt himself a bit too badly and Jaskier had been desperate to lend a hand. It’s so familir that Geralt growls reflexively in frustration, realising too late that he’s made a mistake, that he’s once again taking out his temper on Jaskier.

He can’t do anything right, it seems - he’s still fucking up even after getting Jaskier back. 

Something in the air shifts, and Geralt senses the moment that Jaskier decides that he’s had enough.

“I know you hate me and want me out of your life,” Jaskier grits out, tone harsh, and - _fuck_ , Geralt really has fucked up, hasn’t he, to make Jaskier think that Geralt _hates_ him, when that’s so, so far from the truth, when all Geralt wants to do is take Jaskier into his arms and hold him and bask in the fact that he’s here and alive. “And I could let you continue being a stubborn arse, but I care for Ciri, and you’re of no use to her if you make your injuries worse by straining them. _Let me help_.”

Before Geralt can choke out an apology, Jaskier strides forward and puts his hands around Geralt’s waist, and Geralt almost squeaks at the feeling of two large, warm hands on him, so gentle despite the irritation in Jaskier’s words. Then Jaskier lifts him onto Roach’s saddle, without showing a hint of strain despite how heavy Geralt knows he is, and Geralt blinks, stunned by Jaskier’s unexpected show of strength.

Since when had Jaskier been strong enough to _lift_ him?

Sure, Jaskier had always been strong - years on the Path had ensured that, keeping him physically fit, but Geralt doubts that Jaskier would’ve been able to lift him with such ease. Now, though, Jaskier steps back, expression relaxed as if he hadn’t just _lifted Geralt bodily onto Roach’s saddle_ , not a hint of exertion in his expression, and Geralt can’t do anything but stare, heart tripping a little as his gaze darts unwittingly to Jaskier’s armour-clad biceps. 

Right. Of course. Jaskier is a witcher now, as enhanced as Geralt is. This shouldn’t be a surprise - the reminder that Jaskier is a witcher is right before his very eyes - and somehow it is, these new parts of Jaskier that keep throwing Geralt for a loop, these reminders that after Geralt had lost him, Jaskier had come back to him changed. 

“Will you be alright riding on your own or do you need support?” There’s a tiredness in Jaskier’s voice, a tiredness that Geralt has always associated with _I’m tired of your bullshit_. “I don’t want you to keel over as we’re riding.”

This is familiar, Jaskier’s exasperation at Geralt’s stubbornness, and Geralt almost refuses, his custom reaction to being offered help. But the thought of riding Roach on his own, trying not to fall off, makes him nauseous, so he pushes back his pride. 

Jaskier is already turning away, as if anticipating Geralt’s rejection of his offer, when Geralt mumbles, “I - I think I may need some support.”

For a few seconds, Jaskier doesn’t answer, blinking slowly at Geralt, and Geralt thinks of all the times over the years when he’d refused Jaskier’s help, as well-meaning as it was, insisting on doing everything on his own, and guilt churns in his gut.

 _I need no one_ , he’d once said, long ago. 

Oh, how wrong he had been. 

There’s a line in his notebook, buried deep in his pack, written in shaky, barely legible ink. _I need you. Please come back._

“Oh, uh, well then,” Jaskier stutters, eyes still wide even as he turns to give Ciri a small smile. “Looks like you’re riding Pegasus on your own, cub, is that alright?” 

At Ciri’s nod, Jaskier lifts her onto his horse, and heads over to Roach, stroking her mane. Roach nuzzles into his touch - she’s missed Jaskier as well, missed the apples and treats he would sneak to her when he thought Geralt wasn’t looking, missed his laughter and his voice and his company, and gods, how had he failed to see how much Jaskier had come to mean to him?

“I’m going to get on you now, alright girl?” Jaskier’s voice is soft and fond, a similar tone to what he uses with Ciri, a tone he used to use on Geralt. “I know Geralt doesn’t like me touching you, but he’s hurt, so he doesn’t get a say in this.” 

It’s not true. Geralt doesn’t mind Jaskier touching Roach at all, and he regrets the numerous times over the years when he’d snapped at Jaskier for touching his horse, but before he can correct Jaskier, there’s a warm body pressed to his back as Jaskier asks, “Uh. Is it alright if I. Hold on to you?” 

_Yes, it’s more than alright_ , Geralt wants to say, but Jaskier is rambling slightly, “So I can make sure that if you fall unconscious or something then you won’t fall off. I’m not going to impose more on you than I have to. You can just ignore me.” 

Geralt has missed the rambling.

He hates himself slightly for ever making Jaskier think that he’d been _imposing_ on Geralt, regretting every single word and action over the years that created an impression that Geralt thought Jaskier was no more than a nuisance, when in fact he’d been, and still is, so much more than that.

Jaskier is not a nuisance. He has never imposed on Geralt. He - he’s Geralt’s _friend._

Geralt knows that if he were to speak, a flood of words would spill from his mouth, a jumble of regret and love and pleas for forgiveness, so he only grunts in agreement. Jaskier wraps strong arms around his waist, gentle as he takes care not to aggravate Geralt’s wounds, and it takes everything in Geralt not to lean back into him, seeking Jaskier’s touch and warmth and affection.

Over the years, he’d pushed Jaskier away whenever he tried to touch Geralt, and he regrets that now, knowing how _good_ Jaskier’s touch feels - if he had been less prickly, he could’ve had this for _years_ , but he’d been foolish, making Jaskier think that he hated being touched. He’d realised too late, and now he’s paying for it. 

Geralt reminds himself that Jaskier has no reason to want to touch him now, after all that Geralt had done. The only reason that Jaskier even has his arms around Geralt is because he’s too kind to let Geralt fall off his own horse, and Geralt wouldn’t be surprised if Jaskier is hating every moment of this.

Then Roach starts moving, and Jaskier’s grip tightens around him. Geralt stiffens, not in pain, but to prevent himself from leaning back into Jaskier, seeking his warmth - if he gives in, if he lets go, he knows that he will break down sobbing.

Misunderstanding Geralt’s actions, Jaskier says, “Sorry, sorry.” His grip around Geralt loosens, and Geralt hates how tentative Jaskier is with him, hates how it’s a result of his own brash actions over the years of their companionship.

“Don’t be,” Geralt replies, desperate to have Jaskier touch him easily and without reserve again. “It’s. Fine. If you want to hold on tighter. I don’t mind.”

He has never been good at communicating his needs and desires, but he’s determined to make it up to Jaskier. He won’t let Jaskier think that Geralt doesn’t like him, that Geralt barely even tolerates his presence, because none of these are true, and Geralt craves Jaskier’s companionship, craves his voice and his touch. 

When Jaskier’s arms tighten slightly around him, Geralt lets himself smile slightly, contentedness floating through the hazy of pain and grief. 

Jaskier’s body is pressed to Geralt’s back - Jaskier’s body is broader than he remembers, hardened from what must be years of brutal training and decades on the Path - and the intimacy of the position almost makes Geralt forget about his injuries, because _god_ does this feel amazing. He loses himself in the peculiar mix of pain and warmth from Jaskier, letting his mind drift over the past hour.

It’s almost surreal. Over a year ago, Geralt had found Jaskier’s broken corpse lying prone on a mountain, and less than an hour ago, he’d found out that Jaskier was, in fact, alive, and a witcher on top of that. Gods, he’d been so oblivious at first - how had he not recognised Jaskier? No one else would go out of their way to rescue a witcher and a young teenager captured by a band of dangerous mercenaries. No one else would tend to the Butcher of Blaviken, fussing over Geralt the way Jaskier always had.

The signs had all pointed to Julian the witcher being Jaskier, and Geralt had ignored all of them, unable to look past the silver hair and golden eyes and scarred face. If he had paid slightly more attention, Geralt is certain he would’ve _known_ , because Jaskier is etched into the very depths of his heart, every memory of him seared into Geralt’s mind, and he would know Jaskier _anywhere_.

He wonders what had happened. Jaskier’s body - _fuck_ , his body - had been beyond salvaegable, and yet, here he is, alive and whole. Different, yes, but _here_. Has Jaskier been a witcher all this time? Had he faked his death? Geralt’s brain whirrs with questions, grasping for answers that stay stubbornly out of reach.

Geralt needs to apologise, needs to apologise for how he’d treated Jaskier all these years, for pushing him away needlessly, for lashing out at him on the mountain, for leaving him to be torn apart by wolves. There is _so much_ Geralt needs to apologise for, and he wonders if Jaskier hates him now, hates him for condemning him to a brutal, bloody death.

And wait - Jaskier thinks that Geralt hates him, Geralt realises with dread. _I know you hate me and want me out of your life_ , Jaskier had said, bitterness colouring his voice, and Geralt blurts, “I don’t.”

He really needs to work on his communication skills.

“You don’t…?” Jaskier sounds confused, his body tensing slightly.

Geralt runs the words through his mind, determined not to fuck this up the way he had with Jaskier for two decades. He needs to say this properly. He needs to use his words. He needs to be _eloquent_. 

“What you said earlier. About me hating you,” he grunts out. “I don’t.”

So much for being eloquent. It’s quite clearly not a talent of his. 

Geralt can’t see Jaskier’s face, but he can imagine the incredulous look on there when he sputters, “Say what, now?”

Geralt wants to explain, wants to spill his heart out to Jaskier, tell him _everything_ , but the pain addles his mind, and he can’t find the words, so all he manages is a low grumble.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jaskier mutters, and Geralt sucks in a breath at the bitterness that tinges Jaskier’s voice, hating himself for ever making Jaskier feel this way, hating how harsh and callous and insensitive he’d been over the course of their travels. He wants to tell Jaskier the truth, tell him about his feelings and grief and regret until he’s breathless from the outpouring of words, but he’s no poet, and words have always failed him, so his mouth opens and closes voicelessly.

“There’s a cave there!” Ciri exclaims, and Geralt tries to shake himself from his pained haze and pouring regret, eyes following the direction Ciri’s pointing at to a small cave obscured by the dense trees. 

Wordlessly, Jaskier nudges Roach in that direction, dismounting at the mouth of the cave. His hands leave spots of warmth on Geralt’s skin when he helps him down, avoiding Geralt’s gaze even as Geralt tries desperately to catch his eyes, express his regret and his guilt. 

Jaskier carries Ciri down as well, his movements gentle and careful, and Geralt watches as he grabs his bags and heads into the cave, his eyes tracing the familiar-unfamiliar silhouette before him, gazing at the long silver strands of hair, stained with dried blood, at the broad, armour-clad body, swords strapped to his back - the silhouette of a witcher, but still Jaskier, and Geralt - Geralt doesn’t know what to make of it. 

Jaskier leaves his bags in one corner of the cave, turning around and motioning for Geralt and Ciri to enter, but Geralt doesn’t move, eyes fixed on Jaskier as a question spills from his mouth. “Jaskier, what -”

Immediately, Jaskier’s face shutters, golden eyes going hard. “You don’t get to call me that.” There’s a low, simmering fury in his voice that makes Geralt flinch back. “That’s not my name anymore. It’s Julian to you.”

And gods, what had _happened_? Geralt knows that he’d fucked up, and he’d fucked up unforgivably - he _deserves_ Jaskier’s anger, his hatred, even as his heart cries out in pain at the restrained anger humming beneath Jaskier’s words, even as Jaskier places more distance between them by refusing to let Geralt call him Jaskier. Geralt hates how distant Jaskier is, but he knows it’s his own fault, and there’s something firm and final in Jaskier’s voice that makes him wonder if Jaskier will truly never forgive him.

It _hurts_ to see Jaskier revoke their friendship, but Geralt had done the same for years and years, pushing him away and rejecting Jaskier’s continuous attempts to befriend him, and Geralt deserves this hurt, this maelstrom of pain and grief and confusion that Jaskier is _alive_ , that Jaskier undoubtedly hates him now.

Jaskier is _alive_ , and Geralt still can’t quite believe it, not after a year of grief and mourning, not as the image of a broken body flashes across his mind. Jaskier is alive and whole before him, but so utterly changed, and what had _happened?_

“Julian, then,” Geralt manages to choke out against the devastation building in his throat. It hurts to say it, to know that Jaskier - Julian doesn’t want Geralt to call him Jaskier anymore, and Geralt may not be the brightest, but he knows the significance of names, knows that Jaskier is distancing himself from Geralt with the simple power of a name alone. “What happened? I - I thought you were _dead_.”

Geralt is unable to stop himself from taking an unsteady step towards Jaskier. Jaskier may be furious at him - rightfully so - but he’s _here_ , and he’s _real_ , and Geralt had thought him dead for a year. He needs - he _needs_ Jaskier, needs to touch him and pull him close and murmur a million apologies in his ears.

Jaskier draws him in like a magnet, and he keeps moving forward, wanting to be _close_. “There was - I saw.” Geralt swallows around the lump in his throat as bloody memories assault his mind. “I saw your _body_. It was -”

Gods, it had been _horrible_. Geralt has seen the worst of the world - he’d been through the Trials twice, he’s been subject to the hatred of humanity, he’s been beaten and bloodied beyond what humans can imagine, and yet, the memory of Jaskier’s body hits harder than any of them. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, pain a tight fist around his heart as he croaks, “It was _torn apart_ \- you were _dead_.” Lifeless eyes, face pallid, the gaping absence of a heartbeat - but Jaskier is here, eyes golden, face scarred, heartbeat too slow but _here_. “And now, you - how are you a witcher?”

Jaskier blinks slowly at him, face impassive. Geralt doesn’t know what he’s thinking. “You should rest, Geralt.”

Geralt continues forward even as his wounds scream in pain, helplessly reaching for Jaskier, needing to touch him, needing to reassure himself that Jaskier is in front of him, that he’s alive and real and _there_ , that he’s not bloody and broken on top of a mountain.

Jaskier’s face turns icy as Geralt limps closer, and Geralt can practically feel him shutting down, pulling up his walls. 

Turning away from Geralt, Jaskier tilts his head at Ciri. “Don’t you agree?” Jaskier asks her, pointedly not answering Geralt’s question. “He needs rest, don’t you think?”

It’s a deflection. Geralt knows it is. But he wants to _know_ , needs to know what happened, the void in his heart aching and aching.

Ciri crosses her arms. “He does,” she says slowly, eyes flicking between Geralt and Jaskier. “I want answers too. You said it was a long story, but we’re safe here now, aren’t we? We have time, and you can explain as Geralt recovers.”

Geralt feels a surge of pride at the demand in her voice. He _knows_ that he needs rest, his mind a bloody haze of pain, but gods, Jaskier’s death had haunted him for a long, painful year. Now that he’s here, now that he’s back, Geralt needs answers.

Jaskier purses his lips. “Well, let’s all rest for now, shall we?” he mutters evasively. “I’d rather explain when we’re all well-rested and not on the verge of collapse.”

Geralt keeps staring at Jaskier, pleading and grasping for answers, but Jaskier shuts him down with a pointed glare.

“I’m going to hunt some food for us and scout the area.” Jaskier turns away, heading towards the mouth of the cave, and the further he gets, the more painful the tug in Geralt’s heart becomes, a thread of yearning stretching out towards Jaskier.

“You two should rest, get some sleep - you’ve had a bit of a stressful day,” Jaskier calls over his shoulder as he walks further and further away, and he’s _leaving_ , he’s _too far away_ , and Geralt can’t lose him, not again. “I’ll be back in a few hours, and I’ll have food once you’re rested.”

 _No_.

“What? _No_ ,” Geralt growls, unable to bear the thought of Jaskier leaving. Last time Jaskier had left - “Like hell you’re going alone. I’m coming with you.”

Last time Jaskier had left, Geralt had found his dead body on a mountain.

He tries to get up, ignoring the fire that lances through his wound, arms trembling as he struggles to push himself to his feet, but Ciri forces him back down, brows furrowed as her eyes dart to his wounds.

Jaskier glares at him, chin jutting out, a look that Geralt is all too familiar with, a look that screams _I don’t need your protection_. Geralt has been on the receiving end of that look more times than he can count, during situations in which Jaskier would be particularly reckless, and Jaskier would shove him away, snapping at him that he was able to take care of himself.

“One, you’re in no shape to go with me,” Jaskier says, annoyance colouring his voice as he continues staring down Geralt, golden eyes blazing. “You’d be more of a burden than a help in this state, so stay here and _rest_. Two, if you’re worried I can’t take care of myself, well, I just rescued you from being taken to Nilfgaard, so I’ll be _fine_. Just stay and rest, and once I’m back, I can explain everything.”

As much as Geralt hates to admit it, Jaskier isn’t wrong. Geralt can barely move his body without being buried in pain, and Jaskier _can_ take care of himself - yet another question that Geralt wants answers to, because for as long as Geralt had known him, Jaskier had been human. He’d been handy with a dagger, yes, but nowhere near capable of taking down ten highly trained men without breaking a sweat.

This Jaskier in front of him… he’s glaring at Geralt with golden eyes, blood splattered across his face and swords on his back. He’s a _witcher_ , and Geralt doesn’t know what happened, but he knows that he can’t lose Jaskier again. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he does.

“I - last time we parted, you ended up - ended up -” _dead_. Geralt swallows. Jaskier is right in front of him, and yet the memory of his death haunts Geralt still. “I can’t let you - I need to _see_ you, I can’t just let you _go_.”

He’s pleading, begging Jaskier to stay - he’s just gotten Jaskier _back_ , and he can’t - he can’t just let him leave. 

“Oh, sorry,” Jaskier snaps, face twisting with bitterness, rearing up in preparation to attack. “So _now_ you want to employ my, ah, what did you call it, my shit-shovelling services?”

Geralt flinches, guilt a tidal wave crashing into him as Jaskier throws his own words back at him, spits them with the same biting harshness that Geralt had used a year ago. He doesn’t think he’s ever regretted anything more than those words, the last words he’d said to Jaskier before Jaskier had been - before Jaskier had died.

His vision starts tunnelling as heat builds up behind his eyes, and Geralt struggles to get his breathing under control as guilt drags him under. He really fucks everything up, doesn’t he, he can’t make anything better, he’s -

Then there’s a warm touch on his arm, and Geralt raises his head to meet a concerned golden gaze.

Jaskier squeezes his arm, his solid, warm touch grounding Geralt in reality and pulling him from the churning depths of guilt and grief. Before he knows it, he’s raised a hand to cover Jaskier’s, fingers clutching at Jaskier with helpless desperation, as if he can will Jaskier to stay by holding on tightly.

Jaskier wants to leave, and Geralt - Geralt can’t watch him leave. Not again.

“ _Stay_ ,” Geralt pleads. He realises that he’s trembling, body quivering like a leaf, his voice tremulous and weak as he begs Jaskier to stay. _Please, don’t go, don’t leave, don’t go where I can’t follow -_

“I’ll be fine, Geralt, I promise,” Jaskier reassures, but Geralt can’t bring himself to believe him, not when last time Geralt had left Jaskier alone, Jaskier had _died_. “I’m more than capable of defending myself, you saw that earlier, and I won’t be long. I’ll come back, don’t worry.”

Geralt knows that, logically, he has no reason to worry. This Jaskier in front of him is not the Jaskier he remembers from a year ago. This Jaskier has hair as white as Geralt’s own and golden cat eyes, has armour hugging his broad body and scars on his face. This Jaskier has been through hell and come out stronger, with mutagens running through his veins and deadly swords in his hands.

This Jaskier is stronger, less breakable, and Geralt _knows_ it. He’s seen it in the way Jaskier had cut down their captives with ease and barely a scratch, and gods, he _knows_ that this witcher before him is far more capable than the human bard Geralt had known. 

But still - Geralt worries, heart aching at the thought of separating from Jaskier.

Jaskier pries Geralt’s hand off him, and Geralt lets go reluctantly, his body going cold at the loss of contact. Numbly, Geralt watches as Jaskier presses a quick kiss to Ciri’s forehead, the gentle gesture so at odds with the violence of his swords and the blood splattered across his face, but so undeniably _Jaskier_.

Looking up at Jaskier, Ciri bites her lip, her eyes wide and vulnerable, and Geralt longs to bring her into his arms and comfort her. “You’ll be careful?” she asks quietly, as unwilling to part with Jaskier as Geralt is.

Will Jaskier come back this time?

“I will.” Jaskier looks her steadily in the eyes. “I’ll come back safe.”

What if he doesn’t?

Geralt had just gotten Jaskier back, and now he’s leaving, he’s _leaving_ them. Geralt won’t be around to protect him, and there’s no guarantee that Jaskier will come back this time.

Jaskier starts walking out of the cave, and the further he gets, the hollow feeling in Geralt’s chest carves deeper and deeper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> both of them have so many self esteem issues and god i just want to hug them:( ANYWAYS, since the last update, i've posted several oneshots within this series, scenes that haven't featured in the main stories - [jaskier and ciri father-daughter moments set before and during the main fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27030835), [some backstory for julian](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067267), and [canon!geralt and ciri travelling to this the universe of this series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27370834/chapters/66885061) \- do go check them out! 
> 
> i've also decided to delve into writing some femslash for the witcher bc i appreciate and love the ladies a whole lot, so if you want some soft femslash feels, i've written a couple fics with yennefer/triss. triss/renfri, and yennefer/triss/renfri, and i would love if you checked them out and give them a try!
> 
> the next update will be back in the main series, and i'll try to update as soon as possible. thank you all so much for your patience<3

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me your thoughts, i crave validation xx
> 
> come find me on tumblr on my [main @blackhtorns](https://blackhtorns.tumblr.com/), or on my [witcher sideblog @jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


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